


When the Phoenix Cries

by purplewitch156



Series: The Prison and the Glaive [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Doppelganger, Drama, Drug Addiction, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Horcruxes, M/M, Major Death Warning Does Not Refer to Harry or Tom, No character bashing, Not a Dark Harry Story, Parallel Universes, Plot Twists, Romance, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-02-28 23:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 84,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18766978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplewitch156/pseuds/purplewitch156
Summary: When Fawkes’ unexpected arrival upends their vacation, Harry and Tom find themselves flung into a parallel world,  a world where Lord Voldemort rules Wizarding Britain with a young Death Eater named Harry Potter at his command.  Now, they must out maneuver the dangers of this world and find a way back home, but when a mysterious artifact known as the Silence falls into Harry’s hands, returning home might be the least of their problems.----Sequel toOf Your Making





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [凤凰哭泣之时](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22616026) by [Kylinaive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylinaive/pseuds/Kylinaive)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s happening! It’s finally happening! Thank you all so much for your patience.
> 
> For those of you who are coming to this story without having read the first in the series, _stop_. Please hit that back button and read Of Your Making first. When the Phoenix Cries is a sequel. You will be far more satisfied and far less confused if you’ve got Of Your Making under your belt. These two stories are very much interlinked.
> 
> Hope you loves enjoy what I've got in store for you!

**July 30, 1999**

 

Tom didn’t need to check his watch nor the garishly tacky cuckoo clock mounted behind the sofa, which roared like a lion every time the hands struck twelve (a late Christmas present from one of Harry’s school friends, Luna Lovegood), to know that they were very nearly late. He marched to the foot of the stairs.

“Harry, we need to go.”

“If you’d tell me _where_ we’re going, I’d know what to pack,” Harry shouted back.

“Nice try,” Tom replied, amused in spite of himself. “But I’m still not telling you. Just grab something and get down here.”

A string of grumbles that sounded like curses drifted down the stairs. Tom smirked. He was enjoying this far too much. Tomorrow Harry would turn nineteen and Tom had been planning an extravagant celebration for months.

“He’s never been out of the country,” said Granger during a lunch in June. They had been gathered in the backyard of the cottage he and Harry shared. While Harry played with a toddling Teddy Lupin in the distance, he, Granger and Weasley sat around the tea service under a leafy cherry tree. “I think he’d like that.”

Against his wishes, Tom eventually chose to confide in Weasley and Granger about his desire to shepherd Harry away. It was impossible to expect everyone in Harry’s life to not ask pestering questions when Tom stated that he and Harry would be away for the occasion, so he’d enlisted help. Harry’s oldest friends jumped to Tom’s aid energetically, spreading in whispers that it was to be a surprise until the very last minute.

Since moving in with Harry shortly after Christmas, Tom quickly discovered that living with Harry also meant living with a horde of red-heads, a snot-dripping one year-old, and a constant stream of impromptu guests, though Harry would say he was over exaggerating.

“How much time are you taking off?” Granger asked.

“Three weeks,” said Tom, pouring himself another cup of tea. Robards had been surprisingly relaxed about his two highest ranked Aurors taking such a long leave of absence.

“We won’t be on call,” Tom had told him firmly.

“Of course not,” said Robards. “You’d think I’d drag you two back here over a few murder cases? I _do_ have other Aurors, Riddle. Enjoy yourselves.”

There had been a gleam in Robards’ eyes that felt far too knowing for Tom’s liking, as if the Head Auror suspected that the surprise birthday get-away was merely the setting for a much larger surprise.

Weasley sat back in his chair. “You know, I don’t even think Harry’s been on a vacation. He’s never mentioned one.” He snickered. “Watch the hotel get burned down by a chimera. That’s just his luck.”

Granger kicked him under the table.

“I’m not taking him to Greece,” Tom replied as Weasley rubbed his shin ruefully.

Granger looked around at him, excited. “You’ve picked a place?”

Tom nodded.

Granger and Weasley both stared at him expectantly and Tom found himself admitting, “Peru.”

“Oh!” Granger cried delighted as Weasley said, with a grin, “So it’ll be a Vipertooth.”

“Ron, they are not going to be attacked by anything,” said Granger, annoyed.

Weasley snorted. “Do you know the same Harry I do?”

Granger ignored him. She turned back to Tom. “It sounds wonderful. He’s going to love it.”

“Love what?”

All three of their heads whipped around. Harry stood before them with Teddy against one hip. The child’s usual sandy-blond hair was now exactly the same as Harry’s, even sticking up in the back. His metamorphmagus skills had been expanding rapidly in the last few weeks with him constantly copying those around him. It made taking him shopping in the Muggle village of Ottery St. Catchpole a trying task. Tom noticed, startled, that the boy had chosen to mimic his eyes today. He looked exactly as one would expect their offspring to look like, if he and Harry ever chose to do something like that, which he hoped to Salazar would never be the case. If anyone else caught the unsettling resemblance, they let it pass without comment.

“Love what?” Harry repeated, looking at them expectantly.

“That book you’ve been reading,” said Weasley after a beat. He turned to Granger, snapping his fingers. “Toadstools of the … what was it?”

“Southern Hemisphere,” Granger quickly supplied.

Harry’s right eyebrow rose. “Sounds riveting.”

“Oh, it is,” said Granger, emphatic. “Neville couldn’t stop talking about it. I had to give it a try.”

“Kay,” said Harry, eying them all suspiciously. “I’m going to wash Teddy up before Andromeda comes.”

 _And hopefully get the boy looking more like himself_ , Tom thought, unnerved.

Like everyone, save for Granger, Weasley, Robards and Shacklebolt, no one knew who Tom really was. Or, if he was going to be precise, who he _used_ to be. To the rest of the world he was Thomas Thorne, a skilled and efficient Auror who happened to be dating his co-worker. To quote the Daily Prophet: _Thomas Thorne, Harry Potter’s Chosen One_.

Andromeda visited the cottage at least every other week, bringing Teddy for play dates. She had lost a great deal during the war — her husband, her daughter, her son-in-law, but she had Teddy and she had Harry. Tom was rather impressed with how well she was coping. Though he had never spoken to the third Black sister, as she estranged herself shortly before Bella joined his ranks all those years ago, he found the woman’s company surprisingly pleasant. It amused him how often he caught himself being surprised. After all, realizing he loved Harry Potter should have been the surprise to end all surprises. Funny how it was turning out to be just the starting point to an endless stream. 

As Harry and Teddy disappeared into the house, Weasley turned to Tom and gave him a thumbs up.

“Doesn’t suspect a thing.”

Beside him, Granger rolled her eyes, both humored and exasperated.

“Toadstools? Really?”

Weasley shrugged. “What was I supposed to say?”

“You’re hopeless,” said Granger, but she was charmed.

And again, to Tom’s surprise, with each visit of Harry’s two closest friends, he too found himself charmed. Granger’s brain was a scholar’s dream and Weasley — for all his laid-back humor — was the bloke who’d wade into flesh-eating waters if it would save one of his companions.

Tom had never had something like that. He’d never had friends or confidants. He’d never understood the appeal. Not until Harry. And though he did not think of Granger or Weasley in such a light, he also did not mind them as he’d once thought he would.

Unlike, for instance, this lion clock. Waiting for Harry to appear, Tom stood before it, counting its golden, ticking seconds. Harry’s insistence on hanging it up had been met by Tom’s retaliation of turning their bedroom as Slytherin as wizarding possible. The sudden sounds of Harry’s feet on the stairs had him turning.

“Okay.” Harry set his suitcase down. “I’m ready. Unless I need goulashes.”

Tom eyed the trunk. “You’ve packed everything, haven’t you?”

“Yep. Unless, you know, I need goulashes. _Do_ I need goulashes?” Harry asked, still trying to wriggle the truth of their vacation spot out of Tom even though he was seconds from finding out himself.

Biting back a laugh, Tom flicked his wand and the trunk shrunk down to the size of walnut. Another twitch and it zoomed into his pocket, safely tucked away next to his own luggage. Harry took his offered hand, wearing the same excited grin he’d had when Tom first told him of the holiday. From his other pocket, he extracted the Portkey the hotel had sent by owl the week prior.

“We’re not Apparating?” said Harry, surprised.

“It’s too far. I don’t expect you’d enjoy spending the first day recuperating from splinching.”

Neither would he, matter of fact. He checked the lion clock and Harry placed his forefinger against the rather plain looking medallion. The only thing remotely interesting on its face was a small etched figure of a —

“Is that a dragon?” Harry asked, scrutinizing the coin. He grew even more excited. “Are we going to —”

He was cut off as the Portkey glowed bright blue. With a sharp jerk behind the navel, he and Harry zoomed across the Atlantic. A second later, Tom’s feet hit solid ground and Harry stumbled against him, his elbow banging into Tom’s rib cage. They had left their sitting room in Ottery St. Catchpole and now stood in the floo foyer of a spotless hotel.

At once, Harry turned on the spot, taking in his surroundings. A floor to ceiling window took up an entire wall, opposite a set of floos that whooshed periodically into life. Harry’s mouth dropped open. He stepped closer to the glass.

“Where…”

“Peru,” said Tom, stepping up beside him and taking in the stunning view. Like a bird’s nest, the hotel resided in the upper crook of a mountain. “In the Andes. Ten ridges over is Machu Picchu, but this is a wizarding hotel so we are overlooking Ligero de Valle, an even more ancient civilization.” As he spoke, a buggy drawn by flying llama took off from the wizarding city that gleamed before them, speeding its passengers to the neighboring mountaintop where more of the city sprawled, built precariously along the ridges. He cut his eyes to Harry. “Do you like it?”

When Tom had been choosing which scenic place to take Harry, there had been only one requirement. That it be as stunning as he was. As Harry turned to him, radiant with happiness, he knew he’d come close.

 

**xXx**

 

Harry felt eleven again, wishing he had a dozen eyes. He followed Tom out of the arrival chamber into a large, open room. Intricate murals of gold, orange and green covered the walls, curling upward onto the high-vaulted ceiling. Harry craned his neck back, trying to take it all in. The murals _moved_. The colored stones shifted, forming the rolling mountain range that surrounded the hotel. Stones flickered copper red, sending a fleet of Peruvian Vipertooths soaring across the walls.

Like at the Quidditch World Cup, Harry stared at the foreign witches and wizards moving about the reception hall. Their robes were far more colorful and extravagant than Harry’s and Tom’s: brilliant reds and sky blues, stripes and diamond patterns. A wizard with a gigantic handle-bar mustache was speaking rapid German to who looked to be his wife and daughter. They each clutched colorful pamphlets.

Harry, tripping slightly on the thick, intricate rugs, hurried after Tom, who stood at the welcoming desk, speaking to a wizard in maroon-striped robes, a fancy badge of a Vipertooth pinned to his chest.

“Reservations for Thomas Thorne,” Tom was saying, leaning casually against the desk and sliding the Portkey toward the clerk.

The wizard, who sported a pencil thin mustache that would have put Ron in tears, sent the Portkey zooming into a box behind the desk and consulted a thick bound book.

“Thomas Thorne, the Medallion Suite, checkout August 21st.”

“Correct,” said Tom.

Nodding smartly, the clerk looked up from his register and his eyes landed upon Harry, who’d been sifting through a stack of tourist pamphlets set on the counter. Like clockwork, the wizard’s eyes flicked up to Harry’s forehead and then widened, realization dawning.

Tom cleared his throat.

“Your key,” said the clerk, suddenly breathless, holding out a glittering golden key inlaid with a copper stone. “Dezi will show you to your rooms.”

With a sharp crack, Dezi appeared beside them, a house elf dressed in the same elaborate stripes but in light green.

“Enjoy your stay,” beamed the clerk.

Barely hiding his grin, Harry shot Tom a glance as they followed Dezi out of the reception hall and into a glass elevator. Upward it shot, gifting them a view of the hotel’s gleaming interior as well as the mountains surrounding it. Harry had never seen anything so dazzling. He wondered how much this place cost. He knew Tom had funds squirreled away — anyone who’d spent five months in the stately Cornithia had money — but even he wasn’t so confident that the pension of an Auror would be able to handle three weeks at this place.

Suddenly, some of the bright-eyed giddiness bubbling inside Harry wavered. He and Tom never talked about money. Even after living together for seven months, it somehow never came up. He didn’t even know if Tom had gotten a Gringotts key. And this had all been a surprise. A birthday celebration, Tom had told him. A little getaway, just the two of them.

Little? How in the world was this _little?_ If this was what Tom considered small, Harry wondered what he considered grand. Harry had pictured a cabin near a lake. Maybe do some fishing. Go on a few hikes. He had not imagined anything close to _this_. And at the thought, something suddenly hit Harry: how in the world was he supposed to top a Peruvian hotel in the cloud-shrouded Andes? When Harry had asked him in December what he’d wanted to do on _his_ birthday, Tom had looked at him blankly.

“Nothing,” he’d said.

“Oh, come on. We have to do _something_. It’s not every day you get to turn thirty-one _again_.”

Clearly flummoxed by the whole notion, Tom had not argued against it and ‘something’ became a home-cooked dinner, two bottles of Tom’s favorite vintages, a great deal of sex and (as a joke) an autographed record of Celestina Warbeck’s greatest hits. At midnight, they’d bundled up and sat on the cottage’s back porch, watching the New Year fireworks from the village down below. Harry had been rather pleased with himself, but now, watching the sunbathed mountains stretch on into the distance as the elevator climbed ever upward, he began to wish he’d done something else — something with a little more flare, a little more drama, something that could have stood up against a hotel perched on the tip top of a mountain.

The elevator’s glass doors opened onto a golden-tiled floor. Dezi tapped a polished door on the landing with his finger.

“The Medallion Suite,” he announced with a bow. The door swung open and Harry’s jaw dropped yet again.

“Will my lords be needing anything?” Dezi asked.

“No, thank you,” said Tom, casually glancing over the expansive sitting room before him. “Though — when is the restaurant serving?”

“The Sirenia has closed now from serving lunch, my lord, but shall reopen again at seven forty-five. The bar, however, remains open. Room service is always available.”

Harry thought Tom murmured something else. He didn’t catch it, too busy taking in the Medallion Suite. It wasn’t _a_ room. It was _five_. Five rooms. An enormous bedroom with a stupidly enormous bed, a gargantuan bathroom of gleaming azure blue tile, a sitting room with a wide balcony, and two others that Harry honestly didn’t have the first inkling for what they were for. He slid open the glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. Wind whipped back his hair and his stomach swooped. The hotel was carved into the mountain’s side, giving its guests a bird-eye view of the Andes and the city before it. The sun had been low when they’d left home. Now it was high overhead. By evening, his internal clock would be completely out of sorts. Harry heard Tom step onto the balcony behind him.

“Would you like to wander around the city before dinner or stay in the hotel?” Tom stepped closer when he did not answer. “Harry?”

“This is insane,” Harry whispered. “Have you been here before?”

“Not here, no,” said Tom. “But it is one of the top wizarding destinations. I thought it would be fitting.”

“For turning nineteen?” said Harry weakly.

Tom smiled. The golden rays of the sun glinted off his hair.

“Why not?”

Harry laughed. “Wait until Ron and Hermione find out about this!”

“Well,” said Tom, “they actually already know.”

“They do?” said Harry startled.

“Everyone fights over your birthdays,” Tom stated. “It was my turn. Weasley bets we’ll be attacked by Vipertooths.” He turned suddenly serious. “Which are prevalent and highly aggressive. They circle before diving, so keep an eye for shadows. Their wings cause a distinctive vibration and their call is — ”

With a step, Harry closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Tom’s neck.

“Dezi said the bar was open?”

“I do believe he did.”

“Maybe we could order up a few drinks while we decide what to do,” Harry suggested, smiling slow and sly, the sort of smile he knew made Tom’s heart beat a fraction faster. “I grabbed a lot of pamphlets. It might take some time to decide what to see first.”

“Oh,” Tom breathed, “it’ll take _ages_.”

 

**xXx**

 

The rain fell so fast and strong that Severus grew damp, regardless of the repelling charm he’d placed upon his robes. Beside him, Avery shifted, his dragon-hide boots squelching in the mud. In the distance stood a cottage. Pale lavender smoke curled up from the chimney, just visible through the sheets of rain. The unease that had formed when the Dark Lord assigned him and Avery to this location intensified, crawling like ants on his skin.

“Are they ever going to show?” Avery snarled, the long wait in the rain making him short-tempered.

Severus shot Avery a warning glare, but in the heavy downpour he was sure the man missed it. It wasn’t wise to speak ill of the Dark Lord’s son, not because the man was omnipresent, but because if he found out — and he usually did — you were better off dead.

A sharp crack, followed by a heavy presence — like the pressure against eardrums when you swam too deep — had Severus and Avery turning. At once, they bowed.

“General,” they murmured.

The Dark Lord’s son, tall and dark haired, approached them, a smaller figure following in his footsteps. Riddle had brought Potter. Severus’ unease tripled. They passed Severus and Avery, and as they did, Severus tried to catch Potter’s eye, but the boy’s face was hidden under the hood of his cloak.

Without comment, Severus and Avery stepped into line, trailing after them. Half a yard away from the front door, Riddle stopped.

“Gather the prisoners,” he ordered.

With another crack, Potter vanished. A second later, petrified screams sounded within the house. Red light flashed across the windows as Potter attacked. Avery quickly followed, and with grim resolve, so too did Severus. However, as their feet hit the warped flooring of the old house, there was very little left for them to do. Potter was an efficient spell caster. Crouched on the floor, bound by invisible ropes, the Delacours trembled.

Again, it was the heady weight of magic in the air that alerted them of Riddle’s presence. Like his father, he could Apparate and Disapparate silently, a feat Severus had only known from one other wizard.  

“Monsieur Delacour,” Riddle greeted. “You have been very foolish.”

“Please,” said Delacour, shaking from head to foot, his round face glistening with sweat. “Lord General, we ’ave done nothing—”

“Nothing?” said Riddle lightly. “Smuggling illegal Portkeys into England is nothing?”

“We are not doing such a thing!”

“You tell me these are not your work?” Riddle asked, tossing a small bag from his pocket onto the floor. It fell with a clatter, a host of tin cans and tarnished lockets spilling from its opening. “Are you quite sure? Be very, very careful, monsieur.”

“There has been a mistake, my lord!” Delacour cried, but the man was no liar.

“Did you honestly believe the Dark Lord would not sniff you out?” Riddle asked. “There are no secrets from him, Delacour. He knows. He always knows.”

Next to Delacour, his wife squeezed her eyes shut and their daughter paled even further. The girl began to whisper something in rapid French. Severus wondered if it was a prayer.

Riddle lifted his wand.

“Please!” Delacour cried. “Please, my family did not know! Spare them! Punish me! Please!”

“The Dark Lord does not _spare_ ,” Riddle spat. “You should have known better, Delacour.”

“Wait.”

Riddle paused and glanced at Potter. The boy’s hood had fallen back in the attack and his eyes — _Lily’s_ eyes — scanned the opposite wall. The Delacours stopped breathing as Potter walked toward a tall chifforobe. He yanked it open and a young girl with the same silvery blond hair and pretty face as her older sister was revealed.

“No!” the eldest cried as Potter pulled the girl out from her hiding place. “No, please! She is just a child!”

Potter ignored her. He dragged the sobbing girl to her family, encasing her in the same invisible ropes as the others.

“Harry, why don’t you do the honors,” Riddle said pleasantly.

“No!” The eldest was beside herself, her face wet with tears. “Have mercy! Have mercy!”

But there was no mercy in Potter. It had been carved out years ago. He raised his wand.

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

Severus shut his eyes but the blinding green still burned through the closed lids. Heavy thumps, like sacks of flour dropping from a great height, sounded through the room. The Delacours were dead.

“Collect any Portkeys,” Riddle ordered to Severus and Avery. “And then burn it down.”

Avery jumped to work, stepping over the Delacours as if they were driftwood. Riddle Disapparated in a silent blink and Potter’s face shifted. His eyes finally met Severus. Severus returned it coldly, which was easy when it came to Potter. The boy was a disgrace. A coward. He did not deserve Lily’s eyes. The boy looked at him and it happened so quickly, Severus wondered if he’d imagined it, but something flickered in the brilliant green. Something almost … almost …

But Potter turned away, following Riddle with a sharp crack that shot about the bricked house like a starting pistol.

Severus shook himself back to reality and joined Avery in searching the house. He had wasted too much time and energy hoping Harry Potter had not been lost when it was clear as day that Lily’s son was gone.

 

**xXx**

 

Space condensed and then expanded as Tom appeared in the entrance hall of Riddle House. At once, Borfin, the house elf, snapped to attention.

“Master Tom,” Borfin murmured, bowing so low his tapered snout touched the floor. “Our Lord waits for your presence in the drawing room. Shall Borfin send up tea?”

“No,” said Tom, frowning slightly at the news. “That will not be necessary.”

“Very good, Master Tom,” said Borfin. Without rising up from his bow, he vanished with a snap.

Tom strolled through the house and entered the wood paneled room with barely a glance at his older self. He headed straight to the wine cabinet.

“The Delacours?” Voldemort asked, voice soft.

Tom made his decision and poured a large measure. He faced Voldemort and sat at the table, crossing his legs. “Handled.”

“Excellent. I expect there are others providing black market Portkeys, but we shall sniff them out. How did Harry do?”

“He is unflappable.”

Almost in afterthought, Tom’s eyes scanned the tabletop where he’d had Harry that morning. The boy’s fingers had left smudges on the polished wood. Those marks were gone now, Tom noticed. Borfin had made his cleaning rounds.

The room was brightly lit and Voldemort’s pale skin and brilliant eyes burned all the brighter.

“Do you believe he’s ready to try again?”

“Close, perhaps,” Tom replied, “but not yet.”

Voldemort quirked a hairless eyebrow. “He has been ‘close’ for some time now. Have you grown attached to your pet? Are you worried at what will be required if he is ready?”

Tom released a soft laugh. He set his glass down on the table. “You tasked me to get him ready. He is not.”

“Not ready in what regard?” Voldemort replied. Tom knew that as Voldemort’s voice grew more delicate, so too did danger rise. He knew this, as they were one in the same. “Not ready to try to claim the Silence or not ready to pleasure you in every conceivable manner your mind conjures?”

“Do you disapprove of my handling of the boy?” Tom asked, just as delicate.

“I am merely here to remind you that hearts are treacherous organs,” Voldemort hissed. “Lose grip of them and tragedy can befall. I am surprised you have forgotten that, seeing where you spent so many years.”

The lightness of Tom’s countenance vanished. His voice hardened. “Are you threatening me?”

He was not going back into the locket. He’d been freed for too long to go back. If a duel with himself was what was necessary to make sure of that, then he most certainly would.

“There are others,” Voldemort reminded him coolly.

Tom’s mouth ran dry. He could fight Voldemort — he might even win — but he did not know where the locket was hidden. Only Voldemort knew that. With a snap of his fingers, he could entrap Tom like a genie in a bottle and he would never be released again. His phantom fingers would not touch. He would not taste. He would not hear. He would only remember and even memories, with enough time, faded.

Incredible. Tom had always been aware of self-hatred, but he’d never experienced it before.

“The boy will be ready whenever you wish him to return to the temple,” said Tom, expressionless. “Shall I call for him?”

Humor gleamed in Voldemort’s red eyes. “Thank you, but not today. After all, it was not Harry I wished to speak to on this trip. You know I detest coming here, Tom. Do not make me do it again.”

Without another word, he Disapparated, taking the little warmth in the room along with him.

 

**xXx**

 

Harry entered his bedchamber and immediately undid the fasteners of his robes. They slid from his shoulders and heaped around his feet. He kicked off his boots, unhooked his belt, unbuttoned his trousers, nearly ripped his shirt in his frenzy to yank it off. It was sticky with sweat. Though his chamber was always charmed to stay at a perfectly comfortable temperature, his skin turned to gooseflesh.

He needed another.

His legs jerked as he lurched to the wardrobe, the faint tremors in his hands building as his search grew frantic. Glorious relief washed over him as he extracted a small vial from the depths of his socks. He popped the cork and drank the contents in one go. His heart calmed, cool detachment spreading over him as the potion worked through his veins, numbing him. Stilling him. 

Breathing steady now, he entered the bathroom, climbed into the claw-footed tub and turned on the tap. His head fell back as the tub began to fill, water creeping up his shins and slipping over his stomach. He stared up at the ceiling, the room softly lit with the floating candles Borfin had ignited. Harry wondered how the elf always knew the instant of Harry’s arrival, popping into his room and lighting the candles and fireplace with a snap of fingers, departing possibly seconds before Harry himself opened the door.

He wondered if Tom was in his own chambers or if he’d gone to the Ministry or even to the Dark Lord’s palace to report the Delacours were no more. He wondered if Tom would call for him tonight, and if he didn’t, whether he would mind if Harry joined him without invitation. The emptiness was getting harder to ignore. Even with Euphoria, Harry found the potions wearing off too quickly, that gaping chasm in the back of his mind staring at him with increasing intensity.

Harry had felt the girl’s magic like the frantic beats of a trapped bird. If he had to make a guess, he’d say she’d been younger than he by five years. He could have ignored the quick pulsations. He could have left her there, hiding amongst the dishes.

But Snape or Avery would have discovered her in their search for the Portkeys. She was already dead, like the rest of her family. Better to die together than to die alone. Better not to have to listen and know you were next. That was better. That was —

A flash of red made him look down. His heart turned over. The bathwater was red — no, the water was blood. Thick, warm, sticky, glutinous blood. It stained his skin, sticking to him like tar. It rose, splashing viscous over the edges of the tub, spreading across the tiled floor.

Harry lurched forward, his hand slipping on the knob as he turned off the tap. He shut his eyes and held his breath, listening as the blood splashed onto the floor. Was it slipping under the door? Was it seeping into the fine rugs? Borfin would be furious.

When he gathered enough courage to look, the blood had gone, returned to water, clear and sparkling.


	2. TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all are the best. The absolute best. <3 Thank you so much for reading and commenting!
> 
> It got asked a couple times, so I’ll go ahead and clarify that the character death warning does not apply to Harry or Tom.

Harry made a mental note to ask Dezi what brand of sheets the hotel used. They were heaven. Slowly, he came awake, but kept his eyes closed. Tom’s fingers stroked his arm, shoulder to elbow, elbow to shoulder. Harry smiled into his pillow as lips joined the fingers, chaste and soft, the opposite to the bruising kisses Tom had administered the night before when they’d tested the bed’s springs.

“Happy birthday,” Tom murmured.

Harry rolled onto his back, his own greeting on the tip of his tongue, but it was lost as he saw —

“Tom?”

“Yes?” Tom asked, kissing his neck.

“Why are there flower petals on the bed?”

Tom lightly bit his earlobe. “Why not?”

Harry blinked. Twice. Completely thrown, he fumbled for a response and instead spotted the ice bucket on the table next to the bed, morning rays bouncing off the bottle poking out of it.

“Is that Champagne?” said Harry, startled.

Against his skin, Tom’s lips curved into a grin. “Why not?”

“Okay. That’s it.” Harry struggled to sit up and Tom shifted back to let him. As he did, petals slid, pooling around them. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “I cook you _bouillabaisse_ for your birthday and you turn around and do all _this_? Peru? Roses? Champagne? _Roses?_ ” Harry repeated, so stuck on the image of petals falling from Tom’s wand that he felt like a record stuck on a loop. If the yew could speak, he wondered what it would have to say for itself. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Tom.

“That you’re losing it?”

Tom laughed. “Maybe.” He took Harry’s hands in his. “Marry me.”

Blood flooded Harry’s face. For a full second he was sure he hadn’t heard right, but Tom continued to watch him, waiting calmly for a response.

“M-marry you?”

“Yes.”

“ _Marry_ you?”

“That is what I said.”

“But —” Harry felt like a fish out of water. “You don’t want to get _married_.”

“On the contrary,” said Tom, suddenly serious. “I do.”

Harry gaped. Frantic, he searched for something to say, something to help wrangle this conversation into normality, but all he could come up with was —

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why get married? Aren’t things working the way they are?”

“Yes. Of course they are,” said Tom.

“So why bring this up?” So relieved, Harry actually laughed. “Why complicate things?”

“What things does it complicate?”

“I —” Harry floundered again, growing unbearably hot. How did marriage complicate things? They already lived together. “It … it just does.”

For the first time since beginning this painfully awkward conversation, amusement colored Tom’s voice.

“That is not a strong argument, Harry. Do you want to marry me?”

Tom’s hands were soft around his. As soft as his voice. As soft as the rose petals that covered the sheets like a flower festival.

Harry’s heart hammered, his mouth dry. Was it normal when asked to marry someone to feel terrified? Harry had always imagined the question would fill him with elation, not make him sick to his stomach. He kept his eyes on their joined hands.

“Can I think about it?” he asked.

When Tom did not immediately respond, Harry looked up. Without his glasses, it was difficult to make out the fine details of Tom’s expression, but he gently squeezed Harry’s hands.

“Take all the time you need.”

 

* * *

 

In early December Harry asked Mrs. Weasley if it would be okay to bring Tom to their Christmas gathering.

“The more the merrier,” Mrs. Weasley had said. “Will he be bringing someone?”

Harry had stared at her and then he blurted, “He’s my date. We’re dating.”

“You’re—” Mrs. Weasley’s laundered socks fell from her hands and Harry braced himself for the explosion, but instead, he found himself in a rib-cracking hug.

“ _Oh, Harry!_ I had no idea. When did it happen? Oh, he’s a lovely man. I met him when you were at St. Mungo’s. Oh, _Harry_.”

After giving her a quickly concocted half-true story of falling for Auror Thomas Thorne, Mrs. Weasley peppered him with questions: Which did Tom prefer, potatoes or yams? Was he allergic to sprouts?

“He’d say he’s allergic to peas,” Harry answered, rather overwhelmed, “but he’d be lying.”

Eye color? Mrs. Weasley asked next, which Harry had answered, wondering why in the world this mattered. But as presents were opened and Tom, who did not expect anything, was handed one, the question became clear. Accepting it and looking baffled, Tom tore back the wrappings and Harry inhaled a great deal of eggnog as Tom pulled forth his very own Weasley sweater. Hermione fled as fast as she could before her peals of laughter burst their barriers and Ron had stared with his mouth agape. Thanking Mrs. Weasley politely, Tom tucked the sweater away, but the next morning, as Harry searched the spice rack for cloves, he spotted Tom outside the back door of his cottage, melting snow from the steps, wearing his new charcoal gray sweater, a silver T on the front.

It was moments like this that made Harry feel as if the world tilted under his feet. Tiny, almost insignificant moments such as sharing a Christmas dinner with the Weasleys and turning to find Tom chatting causally with Charlie about a recently proposed dragon sanctuary expansion in Wales. Harry would feel himself zoom outside of his body, staggered by the reality of what he was witnessing. Of what he and the man previously known as Lord Voldemort had become.

One day, maybe, these out-of-body episodes would stop. Perhaps there would be a time when he wouldn’t have to reach out and grab the closest thing to keep from losing his balance when he thought back, reliving the road they’d traveled, riddled with bloodshed and fear and pain and then so much happiness. The panic attacks appeared in the middle of the night, simply triggered by the slow sound of Tom’s breathing as they lay in bed. Harry’s mind would go blank, his heart would turn frantic, and he would be hit with a sudden, overwhelming desire to bolt.

In hopes of getting past these unpleasant episodes quicker, Harry suggested Tom move in with him. They were, after all, spending most of their time together anyway, be it at Tom’s flat in the Cornithia or Harry’s cottage. It made sense. The constant packing and unpacking was annoying.

Harry had thought they’d been discreet, but by the time Tom moved in, the cat was amongst the pixies, as Mrs. Fig would have put it. Harry was as close to a celebrity as it was possible to be and in just his first few months with the Aurors, Tom had become nearly as famous too. The Daily Prophet splashed pictures of the pair of them across its front page whenever it could. It was only a matter of time before people got wind. But much to Harry’s surprise, no one seemed particularly bothered by the fact that he was dating someone twelve years his senior nor that the someone was male. Harry expected _some_ kind of backlash, but even the gossip columns had nothing negative to say, practically gushing at how wonderful it was that Harry had found someone so dashingly handsome and charming and talented and smart and —

Harry had put down the February edition of Witch Weekly, unable to decide whether he was amused or horrified. Ever since the war, the presses had leapt back into Harry’s camp, praising him for the smallest things, but Harry kept waiting for the smearing article to appear. In a moment of weakness he almost tuned into Rita Skeeter’s radio program, but then thought better of it.

It was a bad habit of his, expecting trouble when there was none, but to be fair, trouble usually found him, knocking on his door at two in the morning. He had finally achieved something he’d never thought he would. Life was suddenly _normal,_ full of things normal people did and yet an unease lingered, like a thorn trapped in his sock and no matter how many times the sock was searched, the offending sticker hid from view but stabbed sharply the moment the next step was taken.

And now, on his nineteenth birthday, the next step left him staggered and very nearly petrified. _Marriage?_ Could Harry really picture himself _married_ to _Tom_? He imagined the ceremony. Tom in silver and black dress robes, a jeweled flower pinned to his lapel; he and Tom cutting a cake topped with miniature, beaming figures of themselves; Tom lifting a glass for a toast. The more Harry pictured it, the more insane it became.

Every time Harry felt a little more grounded … a little more at ease in their relationship, Tom grabbed him by the hand and spun him like a top. Weasley sweaters; nights at the Globe, surrounded by Muggles as they watched a Shakespeare play unfold, Tom’s eyes nearly as bright as they were when he performed magic, utterly entranced; Teddy tugging on Tom’s pant leg and Tom, with a roll of the eyes, hoisting him up so he could look out the window and watch the birds on the feeder.

 _You’re not supposed to do that_ , Harry would think, heart swelling. _You’re not supposed to **want** to. You’re not supposed to like any of this._

A part of Harry expected Tom to pull the rug out from under him.

“Enough!” he imagined him saying. “It’s me or them! _Choose!_ ”

But Tom didn’t. If Tom thought ill of his friends or Teddy or Quidditch Saturdays, he kept it to himself. He was, as Witch Weekly so eloquently phrased it, _impossibly perfect._

As they explored the mountain city, trying to decide where to have lunch, Harry shot Tom covert glances. Was he upset that Harry had not said yes, instead asking for time to mull it over? Was he angry? But Tom pointed out restaurants as pleasant and friendly as ever. Their fingers bumped and then interlaced. It was so easily done that Harry grew lightheaded, that same out-of-body spell swooping over him like the shadow of a darting bird.

“Is it too much again?” Tom asked quietly, noticing.

 _Every moment with you is ‘too much,’_ Harry thought, but he grinned, squeezed Tom’s hand, and said, “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.” Which was true. So caught up in the whirlpool of marriage Harry had almost forgotten how incredible all of this was.

The corner of Tom’s mouth lifted and Harry felt the similar sensation he always did when he stared too long into Tom’s eyes — that he was being swept away.

“Good,” Tom whispered and then his voice turned brisk. They stepped in front of a menu attached to a restaurant’s door. “What about this one?”

 

**xXx**

 

Harry moved closer to the door, better to read its offerings, and Tom got a whiff of the hotel soap. They’d spent a very long time in the bath, leisurely making their way through the Champagne, before boarding a buggy and flying into the city. Tom knew the dangers of divulging in fantasies. Therefore, he had not expected Harry to leap onto him with a delighted cry of “YES!” when he’d asked him that morning to marry him. He knew Harry far too well to have believed such a reaction would happen, even if it was the one he wanted. Harry was brazen, spontaneous, adventurous, but also wary. Also easily overwhelmed, especially, Tom noticed, when it came to him. Such behavior wasn’t new. It had been so in the Carcerem, Harry growing unexpectedly frightened, as if he’d woken from a spell, suddenly realizing they’d been sleeping together and now they must _stop, stop, stop_. When it came to Harry, trepidation was a fluttering butterfly, never quite sure on which blossom it would land, but land it most certainly would.

It had been feeding rather frequently of late.

After Christmas with the Weasleys, Harry stopped sleeping.

After a Daily Prophet photographer caught them kissing in a secluded aisle of Flourish and Blotts and printed the picture for the world to see, Harry flinched when their hands touched. It only happened once, and in a rush to cover it up, Harry had wrapped their hands together so tight, Tom’s fingers had gone numb.

After Tom offered to watch Teddy for an hour to let Harry speed back to the Ministry to be a witness in one of Granger’s cases — a case he’d completely forgotten about and Granger had reminded him of with a stupendous Howler — he’d stared at Tom slack-jawed.

“I don’t mind,” Tom had told him.

“You — you don’t?”

“No.”

Even the peas Harry insisted on growing, Tom didn’t mind. Or the lion clocks or the steady stream of guests into the house or the fact that Harry never put potion ingredients back in their proper places and left his shoes scattered about, booby traps in the middle of the night when one was blindly stumbling to the loo — _I don’t mind._

Once upon a time he would have minded a great deal. Sometimes he enjoyed imagining how his past self would react to the choices he now made. The conversations always ended violently. Not that Tom wouldn’t _prefer_ for Harry to suddenly decide that the only company he needed was Tom’s. Of course he’d rather that. Of course he’d rather they both packed their bags and cut all ties, vanishing away to a hidden corner of the globe where there was no one to interrupt them. No one to pull them apart for even a second of the day.

But that was one of those fantasies he only indulged in once every blue moon. He knew Harry. Harry was not the sort of person who left people behind. Harry wouldn’t be happy spending his days stretched out in the sunlight with nothing to do and no one to see. Harry loved too many people.

Which was perfectly fine, Tom reminded himself, because he was one of them. He was, in fact, the closest person in Harry’s life. He’d even, for a time, been impossibly close.

When Harry had told him the truth — that Tom had accidentally made him a Horcrux — he had been horrified. Sickened. Disturbed. But now …

Now he longed for more than fingers, tongue and cock. He wanted to touch souls. He wanted to be so tightly interwoven that each heartbeat was _his_ heartbeat. Each inhale _his_ inhale. Each shuddering moan, gasp and cry _his_. Had the soul piece savored such sensations? Had it ever, for a moment, grasped how lucky it was to touch every cell that made Harry _Harry_? The desire plagued him so deeply that Tom returned to his old study, trying to find a way to possess without pain, to fill Harry with pleasure rather than agony.

Tom was pulled from his musings as Harry voiced interest in the menu and they entered the restaurant. A waiter showed them to a small outdoor courtyard made private from the street by vine-covered stone walls. The mountains were softened today by low hanging clouds. Tom thought he spotted a Vipertooth dart around a peak.

As Harry struggled to decide what to order, the waiter, filling their glasses with a point of his wand, went rigid. His eyes searched Harry’s face and before either of them could do anything, their menus were lifted from their hands, the man insisting on serving them a full course meal specially curated by the chef himself, on the house: duck legs roasted to crisp-skinned perfection, delicate ceviche, potatoes enrobed in a vibrant sauce, seared slices of beef so tender they could have been butter. Lemony cocktails were followed by a pitcher of a plum-colored beverage, spiced with floating cinnamon sticks.

Harry was thrown by the entire meal, stunned as plate after plate levitated to their table. When the waiter brought an enormous bowl of fruit, all grown in the lush valleys, Harry rose to his feet and requested to thank the cook. Tom watched in amusement as, pink and fumbling, the waiter escorted Harry back into the restaurant. He chose a cherry-like berry from the bowl and peeled away its papery husk, watching the clouds roll over the mountains like waves in a sea.

Tom looked down at his left hand, picturing a ring on his finger and his stomach swooped. Like many things after the Carcerem, marriage was a subject that had shifted radically in his opinion. Before … well, before it hadn’t even _been_ a subject. It had been like litter in a trash bin, unworthy of his notice. The very few times he had pondered the act, he’d found it lunacy.

But it didn’t strike him as lunacy anymore. It was simple. It was right. So laughably right and now he’d done it. He’d set the wheels in motion and Harry would have to give him an answer. There was not a single part of him that feared Harry might say no. Of course he’d say yes. Like in the Carcerem, like in the previous summer, Harry simply needed time to adjust to the idea.

Harry reappeared, mentioning something about sky whales, had Tom heard of them?

“Of course,” said Tom. “But they aren’t usually this late in the summer.”

“The chef said there might be a few stragglers,” said Harry. He was bright eyed and rosy cheeked from the crisp, mountain air and too much alcohol. “Why not? He said the best time to see them is at dusk. What d’you say?”

Tom agreed. They returned to the hotel and as Tom pulled the key from his trouser pocket and unlocked the door to their suite, he wondered how quickly he could get Harry back out of his clothes.

 _Twenty seconds_ , he wagered, pushing the door open.

“Fawkes!” Harry cried in alarm.

Perched on the coffee table, next to a center piece of green orchids, was a phoenix.

Tom froze, one hand clutching the doorknob.

“Isn’t that” — his lips twisted in distaste — “Dumbledore’s?”

“Yeah.” Harry hurried to the bird.

“Not looking too well,” Tom observed, shutting the door sharply. As he spoke, three faded feathers fell from its breast. The bird was a mess, a half plucked turkey. It stood with hunched wings, its remaining feathers matted. A wide, jagged scar marred its face, running from one eye to the bottom of its jaw. “Does it usually visit you on Burning Days?”

“No,” said Harry, concerned. “I haven’t seen him since Dumbledore’s funeral.” Uncertain how to help, Harry hovered next to the phoenix. It turned its baleful eyes upon him and released a warbling croak. Two more feathers slipped free. “Maybe we should clear the area,” he suggested, nervous. “I don’t think the staff would like their suite catching on fire.”

Tom rolled his eyes, one of their most common arguments rising to the surface.

“We do have _wands_ ,” he reminded him as Harry moved the flower display and tourist pamphlets from danger. Honestly, sometimes Harry was more Muggle than wizard.

The orchids quivered merrily on their thin stems, trying to snuggle Harry’s cheek as he put them down on a side table.

“I don’t see why we have to douse the place with water if we can just move—”

“And what do you plan on doing with the bird?” Tom interrupted. “Shall I summon that elf?”

Harry looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I’m not going to leave Fawkes.”

“Why not?” Tom gritted, patience slipping from his tightly held grasp. “It’s a _bird_.”

 _Dumbledore’s_ bird.

Harry crossed his arms. “You’re not being very respectful.”

“And why, pray tell, should I be respectful?”

Harry’s eyebrows knitted into a slight frown. “Your wand.” He jerked his head toward the phoenix.

All contents of their lunch vanished along with the rest of Tom’s insides.

“ _No._ ”

“Yep.”

Horrified, Tom stared at the half-dead bird.

“You never wondered which phoenix—”

“ _No_ ,” said Tom, livid and conflicted and livid again. The feather from his wand came from Dumbledore’s — _Dumbledore’s_ — phoenix?

“Sorry,” said Harry, though he looked on the brink of laughter. “How long do Burning Days last?”

“Varies from phoenix to phoenix,” said Tom, still deeply disturbed. “Could be hours. Could be weeks.” And as he spoke a realization hit: Harry wouldn’t be interested in lounging about, relaxing, while a dying phoenix withered in their sitting room. Their entire trip could be sabotaged. Tom swiftly tried a new tactic.

“There is very little that we can do, Harry. It is their natural process. Why don’t we inform the staff of the situation? I’m sure they’ll make the bird as comfortable as they can while we —”

He could tell from Harry’s thinned lips that he wasn’t getting anywhere.

“Harry, it might take him weeks to decide to burn!” Tom fumed. “Are you really going to sit by the bird’s side until he does?”

Torn, Harry hesitated.

“Maybe we could see if an elf would be willing to check in on him,” he admitted.

“Excellent.” Relieved, Tom reached for the satin pull rope by the door to summon one of the hotel’s elves when a brilliant red light stilled his hand. Delighted — positive that the bird had decided to erupt into flames after all — Tom turned back to watch. Indeed, the phoenix was a ball of fire. Harry yelped and jumped out of the way. The phoenix lifted its wings and let out a tremulous, haunting call that made the hairs on Tom’s arms rise, but instead of the fire reseeding, it grew until Tom winced against the heat waves.

“Tom, I think something’s wro—”

But Tom did not hear the rest of Harry’s sentence. The blistering red light from the phoenix washed out everything and then, quite suddenly, the light was gone, replaced with an unsettling gloom. Tom stood, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the swift change, his ears ringing as if someone had crashed symbols right next to his head. The energy from the phoenix must have extinguished the lamps.

“Harry?” Tom called, sunspots erupting across his vision.

“Tom?”

Harry’s voice issued from the right, which was strange because he’d been standing on his left. Tom hurried in that direction and banged into a table that wasn’t supposed to be there. Frustrated, he jabbed his wand and the lamps reignited.

For the second time in less than five minutes, Tom froze. His eyes darted about the room. It wasn’t the suite’s sitting room, but a bedchamber with light green pinstriped wallpaper and a tastefully proportioned four-poster bed, unlike the monstrosity the hotel had gifted them. The windows showed a stretch of manicured lawn instead of a mountain range. It was raining heavily. Light footsteps sounded and Harry, drying his hands on a towel, emerged from a side room that gleamed of white porcelain.

“I thought you’d already left.”

Tom stared. “Your glasses.”

Harry touched the frames. “What about them?”

Tom’s mouth was very dry. “They’re square.”

“They’ve always been square,” said Harry. “You just noticing that now?”

He moved into the room and as he did, Tom took a few quick steps backward.

“Tom? What’s wrong?”

He looked like Harry, with the same messy, ruffled black hair and thin, narrow face and vibrant green eyes, but he was not dressed as Harry. Harry loathed formal clothing, but the person who stood before him wore the form-fitting trousers and double-breasted vest with the casual grace of one who’d done so his entire life. The sleeves of his silver-gray button down shirt were rolled up past the elbows and as Harry moved closer still, Tom’s eyes zeroed in on a tattoo: a skull with a snake for a tongue.

“You okay?” Harry asked, frowning.

“I—” He looked like Harry, but this wasn’t Harry. “You—” Tom’s brain was blank. He couldn’t stop staring at the Dark Mark.

A sly smile spread over Harry’s face. “Was it too much last night?”

But Tom wasn’t listening because the Dark Mark was on Harry’s arm. The _Dark Mark_ was on _Harry’s_ arm.

Harry stepped right up to him, slid his hands up his chest and placed his mouth so close that his breath ghosted over Tom’s lips. “I’d love to pick up where we left off, but you’re late and so am I.”

Smirking, Harry moved away and Tom felt as if he’d been dropped from a great height. Staggered, confused, and nearly choked with panic, he watched Harry pull on a set of robes and as Harry reached for a tin set over a fireplace, Tom realized his only thread to this hallucination was threatening to depart.

“Where was I off to?” he blurted. At Harry’s startled expression, he added, “I’m rather disoriented.”

If anything, Harry looked even more taken aback and then he laughed. It was warm and fluid. Exactly the same as the one Tom always craved. Maybe he’d been knocked out from the blast. Maybe this was all a dream.

“Wiltshire,” said Harry.

“Malfoy Manor?”

“No,” said Harry, laughing incredulously now. “The factory. Merlin, you _did_ have too much.” He tossed in a pinch of floo powder, shot Tom another sideways grin, and vanished in a whoosh of green.


	3. One Feather

_When Harry met the Dark Lord he understood what it meant to stand before a god._

He was eight years-old and had just been stung by a thistle wasp, jabbed without warning right in the thumb as he and Neville played hide and seek in the Gilded Maze.

“Potter,” Snape shouted, his voice magically magnified to echo through the hedges.

Harry, startled by the sting, was just as startled by the unexpected summons. Lessons with Snape, or as he was forced to call him publicly, _Master_ Snape, were not again until three and Harry was confident he had not heard the bells of the South Tower ring. Neville’s head popped into sight around a leafy corner, wide-eyed.

“ _Potter!_ ”

Harry scrambled through the maze, Neville at his heels. Like most inhabitants in the Dark Lord’s palace, Snape did not enjoy waiting.

“Yes, Master Snape?” Harry asked, reaching the maze’s mouth.

The day was warm and so Snape’s robes were unfastened in the front, revealing the black trousers and slim ebony vest he always favored. He glared down his large hooked nose at Harry with his customary scowl of disdain.

“Our Lord wishes your attendance in the Serpent House.”

 Manners and etiquette were not yet as fully instilled in Harry as he knew Snape would prefer. Beside him, Neville gaped just as openly as he did.

“ _Now_.”

As if Snape had brandished a whip, Harry bolted, running so fast up the pebbled path to the palace that stones flew. A part of him registered the immediate drop in temperature the moment he entered the North Wing, spelled to remain a perfect seventy-one degrees. It was a rule to never run inside the palace. It was also another rule to never leave anyone — and most especially the Dark Lord — waiting. Harry felt that on this particular occasion, breaking the first rule would be forgiven.

Arms pumping, he was a blur, boots skidding on the waxed marble floor as he turned a sharp left onto the Mirrored Hall, his reflection speeding along with him. Finally, he stumbled to a stop before the Serpent House, so named for the prized collection of rare and exotic snakes the Dark Lord kept inside. Though the North Wing belonged to him and Neville, access to the Serpent House was forbidden. Two weeks ago Harry’s curiosity had won out and he’d slipped through the doors. Nightmares had plagued him ever since. Now, as he stood before the twin doors with their engraved serpents, he tried to bring back that reckless courage that had fueled him ten days ago. He hastily patted down his hair — though it did no good — and straightened his glasses. They were a new addition. He was still getting used to the square frames.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Harry pushed open the door and stepped into a jungle. All was lush and green and softly lit. Full grown trees covered in ivy and vines blocked out the ceiling. A winding, mossy path cut through the foliage and flowers, but Harry hesitated, uncertain if he should announce his arrival.

A thought hit him and Harry felt the blood drain from his face. Had he angered the Dark Lord? Was this a punishment? Was he to be fed to the monstrous Runespoor or — sweat erupted on Harry’s brow — a basilisk? No one had seen a basilisk for centuries, but if anyone would have one, it would be the Dark Lord. Petrified, Harry stumbled backward, reaching for the door, but a voice, softer than a hiss, froze him on the spot.

“Running away, Harry?”

Mouth dry, Harry turned. Where a second ago the path had been vacant, the Dark Lord now stood. _Voldemort_. Another rule. The most important rule. Never speak the Dark Lord’s name. Though he and Neville lived in the Dark Lord’s palace, neither of them had ever glimpsed so much as a finger of the wizard. They’d seen him in pictures in the Daily Prophet, had passed his towering statue on their way to lessons, but never had they seen him in the flesh. Harry supposed it wasn’t all that strange. A palace this large, set upon two hundred acres of private woods and gardens — if someone didn’t wish to be seen, they wouldn’t be.

“You lasted longer the first time,” said the Dark Lord.

Harry’s blood iced in his veins. He knew. He’d broken a rule and the Dark Lord _knew_.

“My Lord, forgive me! I didn’t think — I —” Harry cut off, realizing that he was not bowing. He hastily dropped to one knee, lowering his head. If this was a test, he’d failed before he’d even started. All those lessons, all the endless rules, in and out of Harry’s mind like buzzing doxies.

The Dark Lord’s long robes slithered along the ground. Starting to shake, Harry didn’t look up, not even when he knew Voldemort stood just before him. He felt those brilliant red eyes upon him, burning into the back of his skull. He’d thought it had just been a rumor, an exaggeration, but Harry felt that the words people used to describe Voldemort’s eyes were not powerful enough. Liquid fire, perhaps. Or molten rubies. Or freshly spilt blood. Those were more fitting words for the Dark Lord’s eyes.

“Do you enjoy my palace?” Voldemort asked.

Harry blinked, confused. He kept his eyes on the Dark Lord’s robes, a black pool on the leafy path.

“Very much, My Lord.”

“Would you not prefer to be with your family?”

His confusion mounted. Of course he would rather be with his parents. The six months between visits was torturous. The letter, regardless of length, always too short. And with each visit, each correspondence, Harry felt them slipping further away, like they both resided on separate rafts and each wave increased the distance between them. He felt that one day he would scan the horizon and not see them at all.

Harry floundered, unsure what to say. In his silence, his fear grew until he was strangled by it. He shut his eyes and waited for the curse to fall, but the black robes shifted as fluidly as water as Voldemort stepped back.

“Walk with me.”

Stunned, Harry looked up into the Dark Lord’s face. In the low lighting, his skin glowed porcelain. Harry imagined that if he were to stand in sunlight, he would be painful to behold. At Harry’s lack of movement, Voldemort quirked a hairless eyebrow and Harry jumped to his feet. Side by side, Voldemort led him down the path, deeper into the forest. Harry heard the soft hisses of the Dark Lord’s collection and spied glistening colored coils slipping through the underbrush.

“And your tutor?” Voldemort asked next. “Do you enjoy your lessons with Severus?”

“Master Snape?” Harry stammered, again feeling that he’d been handed a trick question. “He is an excellent wizard. I am very lucky to be his pupil.”

Voldemort stopped and so did Harry. Remembering his lessons, he kept his face downcast, but a long, slender finger pressed under his chin, lifting his face.

“That is not what I asked,” Voldemort said and the sibilant softness of his whisper continued until Harry saw the snake — vibrantly green — slither around the Dark Lord’s shoulders; its forked tongue flicked at Harry.

“No,” Harry stated and then, in a desire to clarify: “He doesn’t like me very much.”

“He detests you,” Voldemort elucidated. “Detests you to the point that I marvel he has not chopped off your fingers.”

Harry flinched and Voldemort lowered down so that their faces were on the same level. His finger never left Harry’s chin and though his touch was barely there, Harry felt that the Dark Lord held him in a grasp tighter than a constrictor’s coils.

“But he trains you,” said Voldemort. “He teaches you and watches over you and makes it his solemn duty to help you become the greatest wizard you can be. Why does he do this, Harry?”

“I don’t know, My Lord,” said Harry, his heart pounding so loud he was sure the Dark Lord could hear each frantic beat.

“Because I told him to,” Voldemort replied, eyes gleaming. “My servants do exactly as I say, regardless of whether they would rather not. Regardless of how much they loath their orders. Regardless of how they _feel_. Your parents, for example, handed you to me not because they wanted to but because I ordered it. You live in my palace — one of the highest of honors — because I see greatness in you. And one day that greatness will serve me. But fail me,” Voldemort continued, his finger curving so the nail bit into Harry’s skin, “and it will not be you Lord Voldemort will punish, but your mother. Your father. Do you intend to fail me, Harry?”

Terrified, Harry shook his head. It was a rule to never look the Dark Lord in the eye, but Harry couldn’t have broken their contact even if he’d tried.

“Good,” Voldemort breathed, smiling. “Now hurry back to Severus and have him see to that sting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short little thing though it is, it is important. There will be a few more ‘mini’ chapters like this one that will explore specific, critical moments in AU Harry’s and AU Tom’s history in this AU world. Next chapter: we’ll find out where Harry is!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and commenting. <3


	4. THREE

Fawkes’ fire was like a spotlight in a dark theater — blinding and then gone. Harry blinked at his surroundings. He stood in the middle of a hallway that put him in mind of a stuffy office building. The white-washed walls were plain and undecorated, though surgically clean. No one was in sight, but he heard distant voices. Where was he? Where was Tom? What in the world had happened?

Without warning something hard banged into Harry’s back. Jerking, he spun around and found himself face to face with Eddie Parker, his fellow Auror. Had Fawkes sent him back to the Ministry?

“Look where you’re—” Eddie’s mouth snapped shut. His eyes widened in fright. “Sir! I didn’t see you! My apologies, sir!”

He clicked his heels and bowed like a pond bird bobbing for fish. Avoiding Harry’s eyes, he hurried past, as if he feared that if he lingered he’d be attacked. Harry watched him go, stunned and even more confused. As Eddie sped down the plain corridor a large poster attached at the end of the hall caught Harry’s notice. He walked toward it, heart thundering with each step. At the end of the hall, he overlooked an open warehouse floor. He clutched the railing, knuckles turning white. Down below, witches and wizards stood in long rows, brandishing their wands in a repeated swooping manner, transfiguring items that Harry couldn’t make out from this distance, but colors flashed — lime green, soft lilac, powder blue. And above them, attached on the opposite wall from Harry, so large the words would be easily read from down below, was a black banner with a bold inscription.

 _Magic is Might_.

Harry staggered backward. This wasn’t home.

Tom. He had to find Tom.

Harry spotted a staircase leading down to the ground floor where the working witches and wizards stood. Should he just stroll out? In front of everyone? Would it be better to find a fireplace? He knew he couldn’t Apparate, Anti-Apparition wards tickling like spider webs against his skin. Every second that he stood out in the open was a danger, except … Eddie had called him sir. Why would he have done that? And why was Eddie not in the Auror Department? Again, Harry took in the huge banner that seemed to cast a shadow of gloom over the entire building. Had he been sent back in time? Back to when he, Ron and Hermione were on the run? Back to when Tom had infiltrated Hogwarts and the Ministry? Back before the Carcerem had changed everything? But again, Harry was tugged to Eddie and their bizarre encounter. He hadn’t _known_ Eddie when he was seventeen. So if this wasn’t the past …

A memory from early November surged to the forefront of his mind: sitting cross-legged on his bed, pouring over the thin notebooks pinched from the Unspeakable Vaults, reading about pocket universes and Leeches and —

Phoenixes.

There’d been a short discussion on the possibility of phoenixes crossing dimensional planes. Had Fawkes …

Harry’s stomach sank straight through the floor.

If this was another world, then nothing could be trusted. He looked left and right, trying to decide which way to go. Tom _had_ to be close by. He rushed back down the hall where he’d first appeared. It sheared off to the left and Harry, taking it, banged straight into Draco Malfoy. They collided with startled _oofs_ and a breathy, girlish voice cried in alarm: “Harry, dear! Are you all right?”

Umbridge reached out a thick, stubby-fingered hand to help right him and Harry recoiled. Umbridge’s bulging eyes widened even further.

“Harry, whatever is the matter?”

Beside her, Malfoy straightened his robes. He frowned at Harry, not with anger or derision, but with concern.

“Are you looking for the Lord General, dear?” Umbridge asked.

Harry blinked at her. _Who?_

“He hasn’t arrived yet,” Umbridge explained. “I’m expecting him any minute. Would you like to wait in Draco’s office? You wouldn’t mind, would you Draco?”

Harry swallowed, growing more panicked by the second. Why was Umbridge speaking to him like an aunt with her favorite nephew? And why were two Voldemort supporters chatting happily with _him_? As if Harry was … as if he was …

Harry felt faint. It couldn’t be. He wasn’t a _Death Eater_ in this world, was he?

“You look terribly unwell. Draco, help him,” Umbridge insisted. “Maybe send for some ginger tea? I’ll inform the Lord General you’re here, Harry.”

“No!”

Umbridge’s and Malfoy’s eyebrows rose. Harry had no idea who this Lord General was and he wanted to keep it that way.

“I — I don’t want to bother him.”

Umbridge simpered her girlish laugh and the hairs on Harry’s arms rose.

“Don’t be silly, Harry. You’re not a bother to anyone. Draco?”

Malfoy nodded and Harry had no other choice but to step in line beside him, heading down a side corridor, just as stone-white as the previous one and leaving Umbridge behind. Malfoy shot Harry a sideways glance.

“What happened to your glasses?”

Harry hesitated for a half second. “I’m trying something new.”

Malfoy snorted, but his smile was easy-going. Harry had only experienced such an expression from Malfoy once before, when he and Ron had pretended to by Goyle and Crabbe.

“And what are you wearing?” he asked. “Is it training day for blending in with the Mudbloods?”

Malfoy laughed at his joke and Harry cracked a weak grin, feeling sicker. He opened a door and Harry, tense, followed him into a handsome office. A cluster of pictures in ornate frames sat on a polished desk. Harry stared blankly as the entire Malfoy clan waved at him energetically. As Malfoy rattled with a tea set in a corner, Harry took a lurching step forward, a picture amongst the collection grabbing his attention.

It was him, sitting at a circular table in the Three Broomsticks. Pansy, Blaise, and Malfoy sat with him, all gazing at the camera, lifting butterbeers in a laughing salute. The sleeves of his robes were rolled up and Harry thought he spotted —

Malfoy pushed a cup of tea into Harry’s hands, making him start. The concerned frown from before returned. No longer jovial, Malfoy said in a lower voice, “You’re back on them, aren’t you?”

Harry had no idea what Malfoy was referring to and decided it best to take a hasty gulp of tea. It burned his tongue.

“You are.” Malfoy was suddenly furious. “You said you’d quit! Those potions are going to kill you! You’re not supposed to take so many.”

When Harry remained mute, Malfoy raged, “Dammit, Harry, you’ve got to stop blaming yourself. Longbottom turned traitor! It wasn’t your fault!”

The world tipped beneath him. Malfoy, mistaking his unsteadiness, gripped him by the arm, his voice low, fierce and reassuring.

“ _You did nothing wrong._ Honestly, Longbottom could have had it far worse. Death is better than Azkaban.” He squeezed Harry’s arm. “ _You’re not alone so stop acting like it_. In fact, you’re coming to dinner. Six o’clock. No excuses.” He brandished Harry with a smile. “We need to catch up. The General can’t keep you to himself all the time.”

Throat tight, Harry nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. I’ll be there.”

Malfoy looked pleased. “I should be with Mother during the inspection. You know how Umbridge drives her crazy.”

“Yeah. Thanks for the tea.”

“Don’t harass the Mudbloods.” Malfoy winked and strode out of the office.

For a full second Harry stood immobilized and then he set down the teacup and snatched up the photograph, watching himself get pulled into a conversation with Pansy, his glaring reflection bouncing back at him on the picture’s glass. So he was mates with Malfoy, had no qualms calling Muggle-borns Mudbloods, and had … had … _killed Neville_?

What sort of world was this? Harry put the picture back down, shaking with a rage he hadn’t felt since he was seventeen. It was time to leave.

He ran across the office to a fireplace. Two marble peacocks preened their white feathers on the mantel. Where should he go? Who could he trust? If he really was a Voldemort supporter, then where was he safe? And where — _where_ —  was Tom? Was he in fact still in their hotel room in Peru?

The thought was too upsetting to consider. Harry glanced at the door. It didn’t seem safe or smart to search the building, not while Umbridge and Malfoy and some General wandered around.

Decision made, he reached for the canister of floo powder. At once the peacock statues jumped to attention, blocking his hand.

“Password,” they cried in matching high-pitched voices.

Password? Since when did someone need a password to access the floo? He tried to grab the tin anyway. The peacocks pecked him, tails flaring.

“ _Password!_ ”

“I don’t know the password!” Harry barked back.

“INTRUDER!” they squawked at the top of their marble lungs. “INTRUDER!” Their voices echoed all around him, magnified to an ear-shattering pitch. Harry scrambled away from the fireplace as the peacocks flapped into the air, pecking at his head. “ _Intruder! Intruder! INTRUDER!_ ”

He fled into the hall as the peacocks swooped around him, trying to gouge out his eyes. Harry yanked out his wand, pointed it at one of the birds and it exploded, marble pinging against the walls.

“You there! Halt!”

Harry wheeled around. Two wizards stood at the end of the corridor, their wands trained on him.

“Stupefy!” Harry roared.

They dodged the spell, diving for cover around the corner, and Harry ran, the remaining peacock still shrieking its alarm. He raced down a different hall, feeling like a mouse trapped in a maze. Something grazed his shoulder as a spell missed him by inches, hitting the wall and leaving a sizzling crater. Harry took another sharp turn and windmilled wildly, jerking to a stop. Three more wizards and a witch were already in the corridor. They turned at his arrival.

“Sir,” said the witch at the sight of him. “The alarm —”

“He went that way!” Harry bellowed, pointing to the right.

They charged in that direction and Harry scampered down another hall, coming upon a staircase. He flew down it, meeting more wizards dressed in the same black and red robes as the ones in the halls.

“Seal the exits!” one of them shouted at the foot of the stairs.

“No!” Harry yelled, making the wizard turn. His companions clambered up the stairs and past Harry without a single glance. “I’ll take care of that!” he clarified as the wizard stared at him, confused. “Find the intruder. He’s up —” But the peacock had caught up with him. With a blood-curdling shriek, it plunged straight at him.

Comprehension dawned upon the wizard’s face. He raised his wand.

“I have the intruder! Bates! Wells! He’s impersonating Pot—”

Harry whipped his wand and the wizard’s legs were pulled out from under him. He toppled head over heels down the steps. The pair of wizards that had run up the steps paused at the top, shouted in fury and charged back down it. Harry jumped over the groaning sprawled body at the foot of the stairs and ran, arms pumping. He was on the warehouse floor with its neat lines of witches and wizards. At the commotion, they paused in their work, turning to stare as he raced past.

Clothing, Harry realized, as he sent a giant cart wheeling behind him, blocking the wizards chasing after him. They were transfiguring clothing. Harry pointed at a rack of robes and they took off like headless ghosts, wrapping around the wizards in pursuit. With a furious squawk, Harry knew the peacock had finally been snagged.

The workers stood frozen, their creations hanging in midair and then, as if a starting pistol had sounded, they all bolted, running as fast and hard as Harry to a pair of double doors.

“Stop! STOP!” Umbridge screamed.

On his left a box of sequins exploded, showering him in pink and purple. Harry skidded to a stop, the only exit clogged with frantic witches and wizards trying to get out. He gripped his wand and turned to face the guards. He pointed his wand at the floor and it slicked like ice. The guards lost their footing, careening into each other.

The exit was nearly open. Harry sent boxes and robes flying. As buttons of every color filled the air like fireworks, Harry turned to dive through the doors along with the last of the workers when something hit him in the spine with the force of a battering ram and all went black.

 

**xXx**

 

Tom Apparated behind a bookstore in Wiltshire’s town square. He walked swiftly out onto the street, looking about for this ‘factory,’ but his mind was miles away, back in a posh bedroom with Harry — Harry’s voice, Harry’s eyes, Harry’s full-bodied laugh. Harry’s Dark Mark.

Once upon a time, Tom had sat on a couch under the Carcerem’s gleaming emblem and imagined that very sight. Harry by his side, bound to him, but even then, Tom had known it was a fantasy. Yes, the picture had sent shivers down his back, but he’d never intended to brand Harry. Not _really_. He had, in all actuality, already done so with the scar on his forehead. Another would be tasteless. Unnecessary. Even though it was erotic.

But Tom didn’t feel aroused. The sight of the Dark Mark, blacker than a moonless night, had done the opposite, stirring a terror inside him that still left him shaken. The Harry who’d slipped up against his body, whose tongue had licked teasingly against his bottom lip, was not the Harry he knew and not knowing Harry — _any_ Harry — sent him reeling.

 _Some marriage proposal_ , Tom thought bitterly. If he ever found that damn bird, he’d make sure it never resurrected again. He just had to find Harry — _his_ Harry — and get them back home. The problem was where to start?

A factory wouldn’t be in the quiet town square. It would be tucked away on the outskirts. He turned on the spot, eyes sweeping over coffee shops and a magical menagerie.

Tom did a double take, turning back to the pet shop. A large poster on the front window proclaimed a sale on top hat-changing rabbits, twenty galleons each. What was such a shop doing in Wiltshire? Wiltshire was Muggle.

His eyes darted over the street: a store with a sign for walk-in broom repair; a plant shop whose front was nearly taken over by shivering ivy; a woman sat under an outdoor umbrella, levitating sugar cubes into her teacup. If there were any Muggles in Wiltshire, they were not visible to Tom. What had happened here? Had he actually succeeded? Had he claimed victory of England, booting out Muggles and settling witches and wizards in their place? Had Harry helped him?

Stunned and not entirely sure of the answer he wanted, Tom’s eyes widened as a woman stepped out of a millinery — a woman who was dead in his world.

Bellatrix.

She spotted him the moment he spotted her. Her dark, hooded eyes alighted with delight. She crossed the street in a flash.

“Lord General!” she cried, stepping up before him and bowing. “Have you finished your inspection already? Has my sister won your approval?”

Lord General? Tom had never been called _Lord General_. She looked far healthier than he ever recalled her being. Her smile was vivacious, her skin vibrant, her hair luscious. He saw no trace of Azkaban.

“No,” Tom replied, thinking quickly. “I have not yet met with her.”

“Then let me escort you. I need to speak with Narcissa anyway.”

Hoping that this meeting with Narcissa was what Harry had been referring to, Tom walked with Bella. The pedestrians shuffled quickly out of their path, bowing as they passed. Tom noticed that they kept their eyes downcast.

“I heard about the Delacours,” said Bella.

The name ringed a bell and the face of a very beautiful young woman with silver blond hair appeared in his mind: Fleur Delacour, but she had recently joined the Weasley family, marrying their eldest. Bill, Tom was fairly confident. Harry had introduced them to him at Christmas.

“Oh?” said Tom.

Bella smirked, cutting her eyes to him and there it was — the violence he knew so well.

“He keeps surprising me, not that I should be surprised after the Weasleys. I admit that I didn’t think a Potter would ever amount to anything, but our Harry is a vicious little thing. I wish I’d been there to see it.”

Though the sun was quite warm, Tom felt himself grow cold.

“Yes,” he agreed. “He is always a surprise.”

Bella laughed.

“I am confident you will be pleased with the factory, sir,” she said as they turned onto another street. “Narcissa runs it with an iron fist. I understand the concerns, of course. These uprisings must be stopped. The Mudbloods are growing too comfortable. I do wonder, sir, and forgive me if I speak too boldly, but I wonder whether allowing them wands is a mistake.”

In Tom’s silence, Bella grew nervous. Swiftly, she added, “Not that I do not see the merits, but with the revolts in factories two and eleven, are we gifting the Mudbloods too much ease? Would it not be better suited if, perhaps, we reduced their allotted wages to five knuts a week?”

Five knuts? You could hardly buy a loaf of bread with five knuts.

“We shall see,” said Tom coolly, striding alongside her, finding himself both intrigued by the acts his counterpart had implemented to keep the population in line and trepidation should Harry find out. Salazar, if Harry found out he would want to do something about it. The last thing Tom needed was for Harry to dive headfirst into another war against _himself_. When one was wooing Harry Potter into matrimony, bloodshed was not the way to do it. But quite suddenly, Tom’s thoughts were cut off as a wailing charm erupted into life, echoing through the streets. The shoppers on the street flinched.

“The factory!” Bella cried.

She was off, racing down the road with Tom right behind her. They turned a corner and Tom found himself in the midst of a crowd. People dressed in the same pale blue uniform ran in every direction, flooding down the steps of a large, granite building.

“STUPEFY!” Bella shrieked, pointing her wand at the fleeing crowd. “STUPEFY! STUPEFY!”

A terrified, sandy-haired boy fired off a stunner of his own at Bella. She blocked it easily and snarled, “You dare attack me, you disgusting Mudblood! Cruc—”

But a sizzling hot wave of magic that made Tom’s hair ruffle descended down with the sharpness of a blade. Everyone on the street dove for cover as the barrier, seconds later, sliced into the pavement. Tom rolled onto his back and looked up. A shield, winking gold in the sunlight, encased the building and half the street. Beside him, Bella and another wizard clambered to their feet along with a girl with bushy, brown hair. _Granger._ She shot them all a petrified look and then bolted behind some trash bins.

“After her!” Bella shouted at the wizard. The wizard — tall, blond and muscular — was another face Tom recognized: Bax Cooper, a Death Eater he’d recruited after his resurrection. His heavy footfalls pounded the concrete as he gave chase to Granger, Bella right behind him.

Tom rose to his feet. Inside the glittering shield the blue dressed Muggle-borns were being corralled back inside the building, their wands removed, ropes securing their hands. Surreptitiously, he tested the shield’s defenses and grimaced. There was no getting through that. It was Ministry issued. Tom made his choice in a split second. He darted down the side street after Bella.

He came upon them in the depths of an alley. Granger was putting up a very good fight.

“ _Alarte ascendare!_ ”

Tom quickly sidestepped out of the way as Cooper was lifted right off his feet and flung back down the dim alleyway. She turned her wand on Bella, but Bella was quicker.

“Expelliarmus!”

Granger’s wand flew from her hand. Gulping, she stumbled back as Bella advanced. Cooper slowly lumbered to his feet.

“You vile, pathetic waste of magic,” Bella seethed. “We give you work. We give you shelter. We give you wands —”

“That you take away!” Granger shouted. “We’re nothing more than slaves to you!”

“And slaves do not talk back to their masters!” Bella shrieked. “ _Crucio!_ ”

Granger collapsed onto the ground, screaming.

“We allow you to live and _this_ is how you repay us?” Bella hissed, her eyes livid, her teeth grinding. “A dog would know better.”

“ _Stupefy!_ ”

Tom’s spell hit Bella square in the back. She landed atop Granger. With a cry of alarm, Granger shoved her off. Tom spun on the spot and shot another stunner in Cooper’s dumbfounded face. He fell like a tree.

Silence descended over the alley. Granger scrambled backward until her back hit a grimy wall, trembling from head to foot, mouth agape, her skin so pale she could have been a ghost.

“You — y-you —”

“I am not going to hurt you.”

“ _Please don’t —_ ”

“I’m looking for Harry,” Tom continued, speaking slowly and clearly. “Have you seen Harry?”

It would have been comical in any other situation: Granger’s terror vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced with a wild joy.

“You’re with the Order!” she said in a strangled cry of relief. She clutched her chest, looking close to fainting. “ _Thank God._ ”

“Order?”

“The other one — the one in the factory — You’re with the Order. I knew it! I _knew_ it!”

“What are you talking about?” Tom demanded. “Did you see Harry?”

Granger staggered to her feet. She grabbed the front of his robes. She looked ill, her skin gray, her frame far too thin. “I wish to join the Order.”

Tom removed her hands from his robes.

“Hermione, I’m not from the Order. I’m not a rebel in disguise.”

“No,” said Granger, and she began to shake worse than ever. “No. The revolts. The Order. You’re in disguise. You broke us out.”

“No, I didn’t. My name is Tom Riddle and I am from another world. Harry was transported with me, but I’ve lost him. Have you seen him?”

Granger’s eyes darted from him to Bella, still unconscious on the ground, and back again.

“You’re —”

“Yes,” said Tom.

“You’re — _him_?”

“I used to be,” Tom said gently. “But not anymore. From where I come from, you and I are friends.”

Granger’s voice hit a new octave. “ _Friends?_ ”

“Yes,” said Tom, holding her firmly, “and I need your help.”


	5. FOUR

_Fuck._

Harry felt like he’d been hit by a car. He blinked, everything fading in and out of focus. A tall, dark-haired figure loomed before him.

“Tom!” Relief flooded him, making the pain in his spine momentarily vanish. “Thank god!”

Harry tried to stand but couldn’t. Confused, he looked down. His wrists and ankles were tied to a chair. Tom stood opposite him, leaning against a mahogany paneled wall, arms crossed loosely, but Harry recognized the fury that crackled beneath his skin. He wore an expression Harry had not seen in a very long time: the hunter sizing up his next kill.

“Tom?” Harry said, nervous.

“Do you honestly think you can fool me?” Tom said coldly. “Dumbledore must be desperate.”

“What?” Harry croaked.

On Harry’s right, behind an enormous ebony desk, were Draco and his mother. Mrs. Malfoy watched Harry with an upturned nose. There was no warmth from Draco now. His scowl of contempt was far closer to the one Harry was used to. They weren’t in Draco’s office, but one far larger and grander. If Umbridge was in the room, she stood beyond Harry’s vision. 

“Your attack was ill-conceived and poorly executed. It makes me doubt that the Order was behind it. Then again, maybe the old man’s finally gone senile. Either way” — Tom’s eyes hardened, twin bits of steel — “you’re a dead man. How swiftly the ax falls is entirely up to you. Who sold you Polyjuice Potion?”

Harry’s mind raced. Were the Harry and Tom of this universe in a relationship? Were they even friendly? If he managed to convince Tom of the truth — that he was from another world — would this Tom help him?

Harry was silent for too long. Tom pushed off from the wall, strode to him, grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back.

“ _Who sold you Polyjuice Potion?_ ”

“No one,” Harry gasped.

Tom pulled his head back further. “I will allow you three lies before I slice your throat.”

“I’m not lying!”

“I know for a fact that you are not Harry Potter. Dark Marks don’t transfer under Polyjuice, you idiot.”

What was the way out of this? What could he possibly say?

“ _Who_ ” — Tom’s nails bit into Harry’s scalp — “ _sold you Polyjuice?_ ”

A door opened and closed.

“Lord General.” Umbridge’s voice was strained. “I’ve just tested the imposter’s wand.”

“And?” Tom snapped. “Who does it belong to?”

Umbridge’s voice dropped even lower. It shook slightly. “It’s — it’s _his_ , sir.”

Silence hung heavy in the room. Harry couldn’t see anyone’s faces, his only view the ceiling, and then Tom yanked his hair so viciously that Harry cried out, the chair’s legs actually lifting off the floor.

“ _How did you get this wand?_ ”

“It’s — mine,” Harry gritted, barely able to breathe, hoping his neck wouldn’t snap.

“Lord General, if the Order of the Phoenix has Harry —” Umbridge began.

Tom released him and Harry gasped for breath, but then he was screaming, every inch of his body on fire, every nerve ending pierced with flaming hot knives. It was unending. Agony beyond agony.

And then it was over. Harry stared through misted eyes. Tom was nothing more than a double blur.

“Where is Harry Potter?” he demanded softly. “How did you get his wand? Tell me. Now.”

“I — am — Harry _—_ ”

The spell hit him again. He had no idea how long it lasted, but when it finally stopped, he tasted blood. He’d bit his tongue. Tom’s wand dug into his throat.

“You are _not_ Harry Po—” Tom stopped abruptly. His fingers roughly pushed Harry’s fringe back. Harry didn’t understand the look of confusion on Tom’s face. He almost looked … frightened.

“What is it, sir?” Mrs. Malfoy asked, noticing the swift change in Tom’s countenance.

Tom released him and took a swift step back.

“Find Harry,” he ordered.

At once, Umbridge, Draco and Mrs. Malfoy hurried from the office. In their absence, Tom studied him.

Harry tried again.

“I _am_ Harry. I’m not lying. You know I’m not. You can tell. You can always tell. I’m from another world.”

In Tom’s muteness Harry continued in a rush, “We were on holiday. Fawkes showed up — he burst into flames. Somehow he sent me here. I’m not an impostor. You were raised in a London orphanage,” he rattled, desperate for Tom to believe him. “The matron’s name was Mrs. Cole. You studied possession from a sorceress in the Khangai Mountains after you left Borgin and Burkes. She made you live with the Muggle monks next door. The gramophone was playing Mozart when you murdered your fath —”

Harry cut off as Tom pointed his wand at his chest, staring at Harry as if he was the devil incarnate.

“Tom,” Harry whispered, shaking uncontrollably. “You trust me. How would I know those things if you didn’t? Believe me. I just want to go home. Please. Please, believe me.”

But he didn’t. Harry could tell that he didn’t. He braced himself for what was sure to come, but instead of the thousand white-hot knives of the Cruciatus Curse, the room lit with the brilliant red of Stupefy.

 

**xXx**

 

Harry stepped out from the Three Broomsticks’ fireplace and dusted ash from his robes. Being the end of July, Hogwarts was empty of students, leaving Hogsmeade quieter than most of the year, but the pub was still occupied. A pair of hags played gobstones and a cluster of wizened wizards argued at the bar over an article in the Daily Prophet. One of the wizards looked up at the sound of the floo sparking into life, caught Harry’s eye and immediately lowered his gaze, shoulders hunching.

“Harry Potter, sir,” Madam Rosmerta greeted. Her glittering turquoise heels clattered from around the bar. Though cheerful, Harry noticed the fine tremors around her fixed smile. She fooled no one. He was as welcome in her pub as a three-headed-dog. “The usual?”

“No, thank you,” said Harry. A blind person would think the pub was a church for how silent and still the diners had become. “Maybe later.” But he wouldn’t. Harry detested being in public, experiencing a near strangling panic whenever he was forced to. Even now, red crept into the edges of his vision. Like sap oozing from a tree, blood seeped down the pub’s walls, dripped over the bar and splattered onto the floor. Rosmerta did not notice that her shoes were soaking up the blood like sponges.

“Sir?” Rosmerta asked, concerned. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit down? You’re very pale.”

_It’s not real. **It’s not real.**_

“I’m fine,” Harry replied, brandishing a smile that was as fake as the one she’d given him.

Before she could say another word, he exited, the door swinging shut behind him. On the street, he took a moment to steady himself. He waited until his vision cleared and his nerves calmed before turning up the street and taking the long trek up to the castle gates.

He could have chosen to emerge out of the Headmaster’s fireplace, but Harry preferred the walk. Though it meant the risk of running into villagers, it also meant he would not come across the portraits that circled the Headmaster’s office. The Hogsmeade villagers’ tension was one thing. The silent, heavy stares of the school’s former headmasters and headmistresses were something else entirely. 

Though on holiday, the castle still remained in use. The new recruits trained on the grounds, the Quidditch pitch transformed into an obstacle course of epic proportions. Harry made his way around the Whomping Willow, its thick branches creaking ominously as it flexed its limbs, past the Greenhouses with their doors flung wide on such a warm day, and finally he walked across the sloping lawn toward a large purple tent, erected on the edge of the pitch. Harry stepped under the pavilion, its canvas rippling in a sudden wind. A fine rug covered the grass and buckets of chilled pumpkin juice sat on a long table next to a buffet spread of food. Amycus and Alecto Carrow both lounged on poufs, watching the trainees sweat in the sun.

“Harry!” Alecto greeted in her grating voice. “Come to give the troops a run for their money?”

Harry flashed a grin. “Not today.”

“Poo,” she pouted.

“I’m looking for Master Snape,” Harry explained.

Amycus pointed a stubby thumb outside the tent, his other hand digging inside a colorful box of crystallized pineapple. Harry nodded his thanks and walked onto the pitch. The trainees were Hogwarts’ top graduates. The Dark Lord only took the best of the best and seventh years were known for being competitive to lethal extremes to receive an invite into the program. Snape stood on the edge of the pitch, his hands clasped behind his back, his black robes billowing in the wind. From a very young age, Harry had thought of him as a bat, but Harry wasn’t a child anymore.

“Master Snape,” Harry greeted, stepping up beside him.

Snape didn’t turn to acknowledge him.

“Potter,” he replied shortly.

“How are the recruits?”

“Dreadful.”

“You always think everyone’s dreadful.”

Snape cut his eyes him, as if to say, _Because everyone is._

“What can I do for you, Potter?” he said instead.

Harry watched a witch disarm her far larger opponent, and then, for no apparent reason other than because she wanted to, send him flying ten feet.

“I need your help.”

“Look alive, Patterson!” Snape bellowed as the eighteen year old climbed to his feet and retrieved his fallen wand. “Help with what?”

Harry took a step closer. With such chaos on the pitch, the risk of being overheard was slim, but Harry barely moved his lips as he murmured, “Euphoria.”

Snape’s black eyes darted to him. His thin lips pressed into an even thinner line and then he barked, “Alecto! Out here!”

From within the shaded pavilion, Alecto’s curses reached them as she struggled to get off her squishy pouf.

“My office?” Snape offered.

“Thank you,” said Harry.

They did not trade a single syllable on the trek down to the dungeons, the air so chilled Harry knew his glasses would fog the instant he returned back onto the grounds.

“What seems to be the problem?” Snape asked, the moment they entered his office. Everyone knew he preferred to teach the Dark Arts, but for reasons that Harry still did not understand, the Dark Lord had ordered him be the Potions Master.

“I’m having adverse reactions,” Harry told him. His eyes roamed over strange, pickled creatures suspended in jars. Dust-covered books and the smell of stain remover tickled his nose. Neville had often complained about the smells. _Five washings and it still won’t come out._

Snape sat behind his desk. “What sort of reactions?”

“I’m seeing things,” said Harry, mentally shoving Neville into the box where he belonged. “It’s becoming annoying.”

Snape’s frown deepened. “What sort of things?”

“Things,” said Harry, impatient. “I want them to stop.”

“Euphoria does not cause hallucinations, Potter.  If it’s causing them, the potion is not behaving properly with your system. Stop taking it.”

Harry glared. “I don’t see why I have to stop taking it. The recipe just needs adjusting.”

Snape rubbed the side of his temple. “When did they begin? The hallucinations?”

“January.”

Something flickered behind Snape’s eyes and Harry wondered if he was putting two and two together.

“Initially, they didn’t happen very often,” Harry explained, turning his back to Snape and pretending to study a jar of preserved billywigs.

“Why do you believe it is Euphoria that is causing them?” Snape asked.

Harry took a step to the left, now reading the expiration date on a bottle of armadillo bile. “I just do.”

Snape breathed heavily through his nose, his patience withering.

“ _Potter._ ”

“I’m taking more than I should,” Harry snapped. “That’s why I know.”

“How many?”

Harry was silent for a beat.

“Three. A day.”

Snape straightened in his chair. “A _day_? Potter, that level of concentration is exceedingly toxic!”

“I know,” said Harry, nettled.

“Euphoria is meant to be taken once a week — if that.”

“I know.”

“They will kill you.”

“I _know_ ,” Harry barked. He swallowed, pushing down his anger. “It’s why I’m here. I’m not skilled enough to alter the recipe. I need you to do it.”

“You need to stop taking them.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Will you help me or not?”

He had come to Snape because Snape was the only person who had ever been there. He cursed Harry and threatened Harry and hated Harry, but he was always — _always_ — there, healing the cuts and bruises and thistle wasp stings.

“I will not help you kill yourself,” said Snape. “Take my advice and pour every bottle down the drain.”

The copper taste of blood was in Harry’s mouth. Crimson flared vivid across his vision. Red, red — always so red.

Harry spun on his heel and stormed from the office before he lost all self-control and shot a curse at Snape.

Cuts. Bruises. Thistle wasp stings. Childhood sentimentality had brought him here. It would not do so again.

 

**xXx**

 

Granger did not believe him, but a narrow alleyway and two cold-blooded killers slowly stirring back to life were in Tom’s favor.

“I don’t — I don’t understand.”

“A phoenix transported Harry and I into this world,” Tom swiftly explained. “I know it doesn’t make sense. I know you have no reason to believe me or trust me, _but why would I help you otherwise_? If I am the Tom Riddle of this world, why would I stop them?”

Granger’s eyes shot to Bella in time to see her manicured fingers twitch. Tom’s stunner was powerful, but so was Bella.

“I need to find Harry before anyone else does,” Tom continued in a rush.

“I thought he was an Order member,” Granger whispered. “When I saw him running away from the guards … we all thought …”

Tom spun around, looking back toward the factory.

“It’s sealed,” said Granger. “There’s no way of getting inside it. I — I’m sorry.”

Anger and fear burned inside him. He spun back to Granger and she jerked backward, frightened by his expression.

“Get me in there.”

“I can’t!”

“You _came_ from there!”

“I’m not going back!” Granger shouted and her voice made Bella stir even more. “I’m not going back,” she whispered, fierce, and though she did not hold a wand, Tom knew she would fight him with nails and teeth. “I’m sorry. I am, but I’m _never_ going back.”

They held each other’s gazes and then Tom brandished his wand, making her flinch.

“ _Accio._ ”

Granger’s wand zoomed from beneath a crumpled bag of crisps. He passed it to her. Startled, she took it.

“Go,” said Tom shortly. “Before they wake up.”

For a witch who’d wanted nothing more than to flee, Granger was strangely immobile.

“ _Go_ ,” Tom snarled.

“You’re — you’re _really_ not a rebel?”

“I would rather cut off my hand than join Dumbledore’s motley crew so please _stop_ insulting me.”

Granger remained in place, fingering her wand, indecisive.

“You can’t get in the factory,” she repeated.

“Of that I am very well aware,” he replied. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Again, Granger hesitated. She bit her lip and then she said, speaking fast, “There’s a man. Rumor is he can get in touch with Dumbledore and Dumbledore —”

“Dumbledore’s alive?” Tom said sharply.

All this time with discussions of the Order and rebels, Tom had not considered the possibility that Dumbledore _lived_.

“We like to think so,” said Granger in a quiet voice. “I won’t lie. Potter’s —”

“Harry,” Tom ground out. “His name is _Harry_.” What in the world had happened to Granger? She spoke Harry’s name as if she did not know him. As if he was a demon.

“Harry,” she conceded, quieter still. “He’s probably dead, but if he isn’t Dumbledore’s your best shot at getting him back and honestly, what other option do you have?”

Options? Tom’s mind was a whirlwind of _options_. It was an option to stride right up to the factory’s barrier and demand an audience with his counterpart and what would happen then? If the roles were reversed what would Tom do if he found his doppelgänger lost in _his_ world? Would he assist him? Believe him? Kill him? They were both miraculously in romantic relations with Harry. Surely that boded well in Tom’s favor, but … the Dark Mark on Harry’s arm … Granger cast aside and speaking Harry’s name with coldness … with fear. None of this was right. Harry wouldn’t have allowed this. What had the Tom Riddle of this world said — what had he done — to convince Harry to join him and abandon his friends? Abandon everything he stood for?

Blackmail? Potions? Memory alteration? No, Tom couldn’t trust the person who bore his face. He couldn’t trust someone who might have forced Harry to turn away those he loved. Salazar, was his counterpart _raping_ Harry?

“Why do you need me to help you get to this man?” Tom asked, hating everything about this world, right down to the rat squeaking inside a discarded old boot.

“Because I can’t Apparate,” said Granger.

“You can’t what?” said Tom, momentarily distracted by this unexpected admission. Granger was excellent at the skill.

“They don’t teach Muggle-borns how,” Granger stated. Her back was rigid, but her cheeks were flushed. “Do they in your world?” she asked coldly.

“Yes,” said Tom.

Tom’s answer shook Granger. Floored, her mouth fell open. Tom ignored her, pacing up and down the alley, making up his mind. If Dumbledore _was_ alive … there was no one who had more tricks up his sleeve than that old Muggle-lover. But to leave the one place he was confident Harry was in …

Tom ground his teeth so hard they hurt.

 _“Hold on_ ,” he whispered.

He strode back to Granger and she flinched again, holding her wand tighter, but she did not attack him.

“You’re wrong,” he stated and her brown eyes widened. “Harry isn’t dead. I would know.”

He would know like his heart being ripped from his chest. He would know like his very soul being shredded into a thousand pieces. He squeezed her arm in a far stronger grip than necessary.

“Tell me where.”

 

* * *

 

They appeared outside a tea shop called Madam Puddifoot’s. Granger stumbled from him, retching. Before taking off, Tom had swiftly transfigured himself, changing his hair to blond with a thin mustache to match. His face caused problems in this world. He’d Obliviated Bella’s and Cooper’s minds, but a skilled wizard would break through it. _He_ would break through it and then … what would Tom’s double do then? Already, he feared he’d chosen wrong. He should have gone to the factory. What did it matter if he ended up fighting himself? What did it matter if everyone within a mile’s radius were harmed or killed in the process? Harry was in there. _Harry was in there_.

Tom took a deep breath and regretted it as Granger’s vomit hit his sinuses.

“Where is this man?” Tom demanded.

Wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her pale blue coat, Granger hurried down the street. “Down here,” she said. “He’s down here.”

Tom followed her through Hogsmeade. The village was quiet, lacking the usual bustling activity of rambunctious students, but Granger still chose the side streets and back alleys. She kept her head down and walked so quickly she borderline sprinted. They turned onto a particularly smelly and narrow street. She stepped up to a warped door, its face discolored with mold and mud, tapped it with her wand and whispered, “Arapawa.”

They waited for less than five seconds. The door flung open and a tall man with a scruffy beard and long, gray hair stood on the stoop. His livid scowl swept over them, then up and down the silent street. With an irritable jerk of his head, he beckoned them inside. 

“Are you Aberforth?” Granger asked. “Justin told me —”

The man jabbed a dirty-nailed finger in her face and hissed, “ _Shut it or you’re out!_ ”

Granger snapped her mouth shut.

Aberforth? Tom stepped forward, his heart quickening. “You’re Albus Dumbledore’s brother.” He’d personally never seen the man, but he knew he existed. Their eyes were the same.

“What’s it to you?” Aberforth snarled. “In here,” he barked, showing them into a small nook of a kitchen. He rummaged in a drawer of silverware. “You were never here. You never spoke to me. You don’t know my name.” He turned and held a short, broad knife. The blade was not made of iron ore, but what seemed to be ice. “Understand?”

Granger took a great shuddering breath. “I understand.”

“You’re gonna want to bite onto this,” he said, passing her a grimy leather strap.

Granger sat at the tiny table. Face set, she put the strap between her teeth and shoved her right fist across the table. On the back of her hand were two blocky letters in black ink that Tom had not noticed: MB.

“What are you—”

But Tom’s question was cut off by Granger’s muffled shriek. Aberforth gripped her wrist in one hand and pressed the flat of the blade against the tattoo. Smoke sizzled into the air. Granger jerked and shook, but Aberforth’s hold was too strong for her to pull free. A second later, the act was done. He stepped back and Granger, sobbing and shaking, clutched her hand. The letters had been burnt off. He passed her a dirty bottle and a moderately clean bandage.

“Put this on four times a day — _four times_ ,” he ordered.

Unable to speak, tears streaming down her face, Granger nodded. She tried to remove the stopper with one hand and Aberforth, taking pity on her, did it for her. He then turned to Tom, holding out the leather strap.

“I’m not Muggle-born,” said Tom, connecting the dots. “I take it that tattoo makes it difficult for you to flee?” he asked Granger.

She nodded, wincing as she dabbed her wound with the ointment.

“What rock did you climb out from under if you don’t know that?” Aberforth asked with derision.

“Your brother,” Tom said coldly. “I must speak with him.”

Fury deepened the lines of Aberforth’s face. “Who d’you people think I am? A telephone booth?”

“Can’t you — can’t you get in — contact with him?” Granger asked. She was growing paler by the second. “Justin said —”

“ _Shut it!_ ” Aberforth snarled again. “You Muggle-borns better keep your mouths _shut_ or else I’m gonna get found out and then where will you idiots be, eh? _Eh?_ ”

Tom stepped forward, his fist clenched to keep himself from drawing his wand.

“I am not making a request.”

“Oh, you ain’t?” said Aberforth in mocking surprise. “I still don’t give a shit!” He turned back to Granger, dug an old teabag out from his pocket and slammed it on the kitchen table. “It’s the only Portkey I’ve got, so make good use of it. A woman named Arabella Fig will be waiting. Take this fool with you before I —”

“I’m not going anywhere until I’ve spoken with your brother,” Tom stated.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, barging into my home and —” Aberforth stopped speaking abruptly. Tom’s wand was inches from his thick, bulbous nose.

At the kitchen table, Granger watched wide-eyed, clutching her hand and looking close to vomiting again.

“Get Dumbledore here and I’ll be out of your hair,” Tom whispered.

“We don’t chitchat,” said Aberforth, just as livid.

“But you’re still in contact,” said Tom, seeing the truth in Aberforth’s furious glare. “Do as I say or I will burn this hovel to the ground with you in it.”

“Empty threats,” Aberforth spat.

Tom pointed his wand at the kitchen table. It burst into flames. Granger shouted and jumped to her feet; Aberforth let out a raged bellow.

“Fine!” he roared. “FINE!”

With a swish, the fire vanished. Tom could have returned the table to its former state, but he let it remain a pile of smoldering wood, a forewarning of what would befall if harm came to Harry.

_I’ll burn you all._

“Anything you want me to say in particular?” Aberforth seethed.

Tom did not lower his wand.

“Tell him Fawkes sent me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Arapawa is one of the rarest goat breeds in the world. Also, I love Aberforth.


	6. Two Feathers

_The first time Tom spoke to Harry, the boy was a day shy of fifteen._

From the very beginning, Tom never understood his older self’s choice to allow his prophesied killers to not only live, but flourish. Arms crossed, one hip against the balcony’s iron railing, he watched Longbottom and Potter practice their spellwork under Severus’ strict tutelage. Even from this height, Tom could make out Severus’ scowl. At the table behind him, Voldemort sat.

“What do you think?” Voldemort asked.

“You know exactly what I think,” Tom retorted. “It does not matter which one the Seer spoke of. Kill them both and be done with it.”

Voldemort lifted a single hairless eyebrow like an older sibling simpering, _Play along._

Moodily, Tom fished a fig from the fruit bowl set between them. “It’s obvious.”

“I agree.”

“Then finish him,” Tom reiterated, rolling the fig between his fingers and tearing off the stem. He flicked it over the balcony like a cigarette stub. Sometimes he missed smoking, a habit he’d taken up at thirteen and one he’d dispensed with the moment the cravings grew too strong. Nothing controlled him.

“And of the power we know not?” Voldemort asked lightly.

Tom snorted, unmoved.

“There is no power hidden from us.”

“You’ve grown cocky in your locket,” said Voldemort. “There is always more magic to be discovered.”

“You believe that scrawny specimen can wield magic we cannot?” Tom deadpanned.

“Prophecies do not lie.”

“Then killing him is the solution.” Tom chose another fig. “Letting him live is too great a risk.”

“I have taken pains to intercede that risk.”

Tom snorted again. Sometimes he looked upon Voldemort and saw a stranger. “Removing Potter from his parents? Raising him as your ward? Allegiances change. Ambitions grow. What if he chooses to overthrow us and we have paved his way, equipping him with every tool to do so?”

“He _is_ a charmer,” Voldemort conceded, but teasingly.

Tom glowered, not remotely amused.

“Forgive me for saying so, but if I have grown cocky then you have grown complacent.”

Voldemort’s lip-less mouth retained its smile. He drained the last of his wine.

“You shall be taking over as his teacher.”

Tom paused in pulling the fig in half.

“Is this why you released me?” he asked quietly.  For three days, that very question had plagued him. Why, after so long, had his older self gifted him the ability to walk amongst the living … and for what price? “You want me to chaperone our murderer? That is not wise.”

“Are you frightened of a child?”

Tom bristled.

“Hardly. Only that I do not agree with your methods in handling our situation and therefore have no intention of assisting it along. _You_ teach him, if you’re so attached to the brat.”

Voldemort’s voice was pleasant, but his eyes turned frigid.

“I always believed I was above hard-headedness. You are proving me wrong.”

Tom ground his jaw.

“If you take a moment to reevaluate the situation, you will find that you are the best for making sure he stays under our wing,” Voldemort continued softly. “He is getting older. Already he shows promise to be more skilled than half our Death Eaters. He needs a close and constant eye. Do this right and he will be more valuable alive than dead. As you said, he is a danger that must not be left unchecked.”

Tom grimaced and Voldemort laughed, high and clear. It carried down to the manicured lawn where the boys practiced, making them pause. They darted startled looks over their shoulders. Spine rigid, Tom glared out across the grounds like an irritable son who’d been called out. The analogy did nothing to soothe his aggravation. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Potter dodge Longbottom’s curse, rolling on the grass and shooting his own counter jinx, forcing Longbottom to whip up a shield. The crack of Potter’s spell hitting it sounded like a bone breaking.

Soon after, Severus escorted Potter and Longbottom back inside the Palace, Voldemort departed with a satisfied smirk and Tom remained on the balcony, tapping an impatient finger against the rail. It was not much longer after that that he heard the sounds of footsteps and Potter appeared.

“You called for me, Lord General?”

Babysitting children. Had he really been reduced to this?

Tom let his frustrations remain on his face for just another heartbeat before smoothing his features. He turned to face the boy.

_So you’re the one destined to kill me._

He took in Potter’s narrow face, his thin frame, his outrageously messy hair — though that could have simply been caused by the drills Snape had set him to.

“No need for formalities, Harry,” he said with a smile. “Tom will do. Have a seat.”

Not expecting that, the boy was momentarily startled, but he covered up his reaction quickly, hoisting up the soldier’s façade easily enough. He sat. Tom wondered how he would react if he told him the Dark Lord had been in that very chair just minutes before. With a wave of his wand, two bottles of wine and two identical goblets soared onto the table before Potter. The bottles tipped on their own, filling the glasses. Potter watched silently.

“What would you do if I told you one of those glasses is poisoned?” Tom asked, taking a seat opposite him.

Potter blinked. Even behind his glasses, his eyes were as vibrantly green as basilisk coils.

“I wouldn’t drink,” he replied.

“And if I told you to do so anyway?”

Potter frowned. He did not lower his gaze. “I suppose I’d ask why. Sir.”

“Because I told you to,” Tom said quietly. “When I tell you to drink, you shall drink. It is your choice to decide from which.” He held Potter’s gaze for just a breath longer before fishing about the fruit bowl for another fig. “Severus will be most disappointed if you choose wrongly,” he added conversationally, leaning back in his chair. “He takes his potion training very seriously, doesn’t he?”

Potter paled slightly, but his jaw tightened. His eyes hardened. He studied the glasses. One at a time, he lifted them to his nose. He held them up to the sun, watching the light play through the crystal. He even went so far as to drop a single speck of wine from each onto the white tablecloth, observing the spread and coloration. Finally, he picked up the glass on his right and pushed it to the center of the table. He held Tom’s gaze, almost like a challenge.

“For you. Sir.”

For a moment, Tom stared at the boy and then he threw back his head and laughed. It wasn’t as high as Voldemort’s bone-chilling mirth, but it was just as wild. He noticed that Potter’s skin grew paler. Tom tossed him the fig and the boy caught it, once again startled out of his rigid training to look his age.

“Congratulations,” Tom grinned. “You’ve survived another day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God. I really shouldn’t love Locket Tom as much as I do. *get a grip, girl*
> 
> It’s so, so minor, but I wanted to point out the comparison between the line in this chapter, “When I tell you to drink, you shall drink”, and the line Voldy gives Harry when Harry’s a child, “My servants do exactly as I say, regardless of whether they would rather not”, BECAUSE THEY’RE THE SAME PERSON! Gah! These little things just kill me. God bless you Jo and your characters! *swoons*


	7. FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my plan this was meant to be two chapters, but the natural cut-off left me with a pretty short chapter and I didn't like giving you another short one right after the flashback, so here you go! Two for one!

“He knows things no one can possibly know.”

Slowly, Harry came back to his senses. He was parched. Every inch of him ached as if he’d been beaten and stabbed and beaten again. Tom was speaking. Harry blinked and the man who wore Tom’s face slowly came into focus across the room. He stood next to a low burning fireplace, speaking to someone Harry could not see. He’d been moved from Mrs. Malfoy’s office. This room was dim, mainly illuminated by the firelight and a cluster of lamps. Careful not to draw the look-a-like’s notice, Harry took stock of himself. Tight, glistening ropes encircled him, pinning his arms to his sides and securing his legs. He wiggled his feet and found himself hovering above the ground. He tested the ropes. They were of Tom’s magic. If he could just loosen them a bit —

“Then we must learn more.”

Harry froze, terror seizing him like a vice. That voice. He hadn’t heard that high, cold voice since he was seventeen.

A tall, skeletally thin man stepped out of the shadows, his skin so unnaturally pale he seemed to glow. Livid red eyes, slits for nostrils, exuding an iciness that made Harry feel as if a dementor touched his heart — Lord Voldemort stood before him. His lip-less mouth formed a smile.

“Hello Harry.”

No.

_No, no, no_ —

“I apologize for Tom’s heavy-handedness.” Voldemort crossed the room to him; the Horcrux, scowling, remained by the fireplace. “Patience is not one of his virtues, but I take it you already know that.” Voldemort stepped right before him and Harry felt himself rise a half inch more so they were eye to eye.

“Incredible,” Voldemort breathed. He took Harry in from head to foot. “Harry Potter. You are very far from home. You fell through a portal, I take it? Or a dimensional disturbance?”

Harry’s heart thundered.

“That is very rare,” Voldemort remarked. “The Unspeakables would be beside themselves if they got hold of you.”

Harry swallowed and Voldemort’s smile grew. His eyes traveled up to Harry’s forehead, but unlike the Horcrux’s reaction, fascination and hunger burned in his gaze. “Such a curious shape.” His fingers brushed Harry’s fringe out of the way; a fingertip traced the scar. “How did you come by it?”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat.

“What?”

“It’s obvious that our two worlds are different,” said Voldemort. “No Dark Mark and now this puzzling scar. My Harry, you see,” he added with an almost conspiratorial air — like a friend sharing a secret — “does not have one.”

Harry reeled. No scar? But if the Harry of this world did not have a scar … The Prophecy. What had happened to the Prophecy?

“But what appears to remain the same,” Voldemort continued, “is your bond with Tom. Not only are you familiar with him, you are quite close. Enough so that you believed he would help you.” Two slender fingers gently grasped Harry’s chin. “Talk to me,” Voldemort said softly. “I will listen.”

_Listen and then kill me_ , Harry thought.

“Your scar,” Voldemort pressed, his fingers squeezing slightly. “Who gave it to you?”

“No one. I was in a car crash.”

The Horcrux rolled his eyes and Voldemort looked almost disappointed.

“Oh, Harry. This could have been painless.”

And before Harry could brace himself, before he’d even taken another breath, Voldemort attacked. He dove inside Harry’s mind, a storm of razors. 

_Harry stared up into Hagrid’s beaming, bearded face. ‘No one ever lived after he decided ter kill ’em, no one except you … Somethin’ about you stumped him, all right.’_

Voldemort tore through Harry’s memories.

_A man with two faces … A sixteen year old boy screaming and dissolving as Harry plunged a fang deep inside a diary … A graveyard with an enormous cauldron shooting sparks into the night … A skeletally thin man rising from its depths … A golden design of a flower on the ceiling … A manor house on a tiny island …_

No.

_Voldemort, but young. Voldemort, but Tom._

Without warning, Voldemort retreated and Harry struggled for breath. The glow of the fireplace stabbed his eyes, sunbursts of light exploding behind his irises — the effects of Legilimency.

The Horcrux’s steps were quick. “What is it?” he demanded. “What did you see?”

Voldemort ignored him. Instead he gripped Harry by the chin tightly and Harry was nothing against the onslaught; he could have been fifteen again. Razors and knives. Knives and saws. He was shredded. Voldemort plunged deeper, searching …

_Swords glinting in the sunlight; an ocean breeze kicking up sand …_

Get out! Harry screamed. Get out!

_Tom flashing him a smile while showing him how to pry open an oyster. Tom saving him from Strangleweed and then nearly killing him afterward. Tom pushing him up against the sink in the Carcerem’s dark kitchen … Tom’s lips … Tom’s tongue … Tom in his bed … ‘I_ have _forgiven you.’_

Get out! Get out!

_Tom sitting across from him in the Ministry holding cells and then leaning casually against their shared cubicle wall. Ice skating on the pond behind the Burrow, Harry’s feet slipping out from under him, making the pair of them crash in a laughing heap in front of everyone … Tom’s hands … Tom’s eyes … Sitting together in a bed of rose petals … ‘Isn’t it obvious?’_

**_“GET OUT!”_ **

Harry crashed to the floor. Fleetingly, he realized the ropes had been severed along with the charm keeping him upright, but he could barely breathe much less leap to his feet. He could have been on the deck of a ship for how the floor swayed beneath him. He curled onto his side, clutching his throbbing head. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be cleaved in two.

“What is it?” the Horcrux said sharply again, angry. “What’s wrong?”

“Where is Harry?” Voldemort hissed.

“Somewhere,” said the Horcrux. “The Malfoys are looking for him.”

“Somewhere?” said Voldemort quietly. “Your charge is _somewhere_?”

Even as Harry shook on the ground, tremors raking through him like aftershocks of electrocution, he sensed the danger. So, too, did the Horcrux.

“If you feel that it is important that I locate him, I will.”

“Good,” Voldemort breathed.

Through streaming eyes, Harry saw the Horcrux stride past him. The fireplace whooshed into life, the room momentarily bathed in green. Harry knew Voldemort watched him; he felt his glare like twin spotlights.

“Such a different world you come from.”

Harry swallowed. His nails bit into the grains of the floorboards. Voldemort’s robes slithered softly as he circled him.

“How did you do it?” Voldemort whispered.

Trembling with the effort, Harry managed to rise onto his forearms.

“Do what?” he spat.

Voldemort made no move to stop him as he sat up, resting his back against a wall. If his legs would just stop shaking— 

“You can tell me everything now, or die a slow, agonizing death as I pull the truth from you,” said Voldemort.

“What does it matter?” Harry fired back. “I’m not from here. I have nothing to do with you.”

Voldemort shook his head, eyes burning. “I must know.” His teeth were barred. “You stopped my reign. _How?_ How did you defeat me? How did you learn my secrets?”

“I didn’t defeat you,” Harry replied. “You defeated yourself.”

“ _Crucio!_ ”

A thousand knives. Skin peeling from muscle. Muscle stripping from bone. Hazily, Harry found himself upright again, hovering as he had before, Voldemort’s face inches from his own.

“ _Show me.”_

 

**xXx**

 

Granger was livid. His spell had destroyed her Portkey.

“Where am I supposed to go now?” she seethed, clutching her injured hand.

“I’m perfectly capable of making you another,” said Tom. “Where do you want to go?”

Granger looked flabbergasted, the wind snatched from her sails.

“You can’t go around making Portkeys!” Aberforth raged. He’d left them to send Dumbledore Tom’s message and had just stepped back inside the kitchen. “You-Know-Who’s sniffer dogs will be on us in seconds!”

“Sniffer dogs?” said Tom, a headache forming behind his eyes.

Aberforth stormed toward him. “Hodags, you fucking moron!”

“Hodags wouldn’t sense a Portkey’s creation,” said Tom.

“They do when they’re crossed with those Muggle bloodhounds. Where the fuck did you find this idiot?” he asked Granger.

“It is of no consequence,” said Tom through gritted teeth. If Aberforth said another goddamn word — “Granger, I’ll get you to where you need to be after I’ve found Harry.”

“He as much of a moron as you?” asked Aberforth.

“Do you want me to kill you?” Tom snarled.

Aberforth rolled up his sleeves. “I’d take your punk ass right here, right now. Come on!”

“If a referee was all you needed, Aberforth, you know I’m always happy to oblige.”

Granger gasped, Aberforth’s lips pursed and Tom stiffened. Albus Dumbledore with his half-moon glasses and benign smile stood in the kitchen doorway.

“But I suspect,” Dumbledore added as his eyes shifted from his brother to Tom, “that that was not the reason for your message.”

“Jackass wants to see you,” Aberfroth growled, jutting a thumb at Tom. “I’ve also got a Muggle-born in need of transit as _jackass_ destroyed my last Portkey.”

“I see. Aberforth, you’ll need to join Miss Granger” — Granger jerked at the sound of her name — “until the coast is clear to return. Are you packed?”

Grumbling darkly, Aberforth stomped from the kitchen. 

“You know who I am?” said Granger, amazed.

“Of course,” said Dumbledore. “You were the brightest of your year.”

Tom was used to hearing this. Harry and Weasley often threw about similar remarks, but instead of flushing with embarrassed pride, a cloud seemed to settle over Granger’s features.

“Sir, I want to join the Order.”

“Are you quite sure? It is a very dangerous occupation.”

“Yes,” said Granger fiercely. “I want to help.”

“Very well,” said Dumbledore. “Ah, Aberforth! Ready?”

A battered, peeling suitcase in tow, Aberforth slouched toward them. Dumbledore pulled from his pocket a used candy wrapper, placed his wand tip to it and it glowed a vibrant blue.

“Tell Arabella the situation,” he told them, handing the wrapper to Aberforth. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

Granger just managed to touch a corner of the colored paper before they vanished.

“I estimate ten seconds before the hodags are upon us,” Dumbledore informed Tom, turning to him. “They patrol Hogsmeade, you see. I know of a safer location that will allow us to talk properly. I suspect that you have much to tell me, Tom.”

Unlike Granger, Tom did not flinch at the sound of his name. He glared. Rueful, he removed his transfigurations. No matter how hard he tried, time and time again, Dumbledore always saw straight through him.

He narrowed his eyes. “You know I’m different. You know I’m not the Tom of this world.”

“Of course,” said Dumbledore, cheerful. The sounds of barking dogs reached Tom’s ears. “I can state emphatically that I have never had the pleasure of _your_ company. Shall we be off?”

Dumbledore held out his hand. Tom hesitated for only a second before grasping his wrist. A breath later, salt wind hit Tom with the strength of a hurricane. He released his grip on Dumbledore and turned on the spot. He had set them down upon a stripped bare rock in the middle of the ocean. Waves crashed upon the craggy sides, spraying them both.

“So,” said Dumbledore, as if they were picking up the threads of an interrupted conversation over tea, “Fawkes?”

Tom steeled himself.

“You know me. You recognized me immediately.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore agreed.

“And therefore you know that I would never come to you unless I was desperate.”

Dumbledore’s face was grave. “Very true.”

“So there is so reason for me to lie to you. Correct?”

Dumbledore’s beard whipped in the wind, his plum-colored robes twisting around his ankles. He clasped his hands and waited for Tom to continue. As clouds blocked out the sun, Tom told him everything.

 

**xXx**

 

Harry spat out a mouthful of blood. He was alive. How could he still be alive?

He blinked, wondering how many times he’d been knocked unconscious today. There was a number that was safe before brain damage set it, but it eluded him and Harry, numbly, agreed that it wasn’t particularly helpful information anyway. Wincing, he tried to sit up and found his wrists bound tightly behind his back, but that was okay. It was better to lie still. The ground was solid beneath him, dirt cool against his hot cheek. He didn’t think he’d be able to stand if he tried. For a moment he thought he was in the Forbidden Forest, but why would Voldemort dump him there? Maybe the man watched from around a tree, waiting for an Acromantula to eat him whole, but as Harry’s throbbing brain slowly caught up with his senses, he knew this was not the Forbidden Forest. It was lusher, warmer, vibrant. Tropical. He peered upward at the deep green canopy, tree branches crisscrossing overhead, bedecked with moss and vines. The softened light helped his stinging eyes. It helped soothe his pounding head. Harry frowned, narrowing his eyes. The pale cream of a ceiling was just visible through the canopy. He was in a room, bewitched into a forest. Why would Voldemort put him here and not a dungeon?

It didn’t matter. Harry had more pressing matters to contend with. Grimacing, he sat up and rested his back against a tree. He gasped at the contact, his back aching as badly as his skull.

It doesn’t matter. _It doesn’t matter._

Harry steadied his breathing. He shut his eyes, focusing upon the ropes cutting into his wrists. Tom had been teaching him wandless magic. It was a skill most wizards never mastered, both from the difficulty and the lack of efficiency. There was a reason wizards had invented wands. Wands condensed and enhanced magic. Channeled it. Controlled it. Even Tom struggled with wandless, stating emphatically to always — _always_ — use wands.

“Then why bother learn wandless?” Harry had grumbled after listening to Tom’s lecture and not feeling remotely confident.

“Because you might find yourself without a wand. That’s why.”

In the cool and dark, surrounded by damp vegetation and the sounds of buzzing insects, Harry reached out to the magic binding his hands.

_What color is it?_ asked Tom. 

Storm-cloud purple, same as yours. So dark it could be black.

_Good,_ Tom praised, his voice so clear inside Harry’s head he could have been sitting right next to him. _Seeing the color makes it tangible. How does it feel against your skin?_

Cold. So cold it’s hot. That doesn’t make any sense.

_It is what it is. Don’t get distracted by logic. Use your senses. Focus._

Harry grimaced, ignoring the stabbing pain behind his eyes, the throbbing pulses that spoke of far more than just a headache. _Don’t think about that._ Focus. He saw the ropes in his mind’s eye; he listened to their beats and swells. They were familiar. So very familiar. Like hooks teasing apart a knot, Harry slipped his own magic through the rope’s threads. Slowly, achingly slowly, he felt them loosen.

_Focus,_ Tom urged.

_Focussss._

Harry’s eyes snapped open, the word turning into a hiss that kept going and going. The lower leaves of the shrub before him rustled and the white body of a ninazu slithered into view. Before living with Tom, Harry wouldn’t have recognized the five foot long snake with its slender, alabaster scales and liquid sun-burst eyes, but when Tom had learned that Rolf had one in his trusted briefcase, Harry had heard nothing else for weeks.

Far smaller in stature than a basilisk or Runespoor, ninazus made up for their size in their venom, so potent a single drop could burn a hole in metal and its gleaming eyes were locked on him.

 

**xXx**

 

Up and down, Voldemort paced, his intestines twisting in a fashion that was foreign to him. Fear, he realized. Fear and vulnerability.

Coincidence did not exist. This boy … this other version of his prophesied killer had landed in his world for a reason. Voldemort’s magic crackled beneath his skin. The memories pried from the boy’s mind raced through his own. They were impossible. Outrageous. Inconceivable. For his counterpart to _fall in love_? For his reign to end because of the charms of a _teenager?_

The glass doors of a wine cabinet shattered, the bottles and decanters exploding like bombs. It was a good thing he’d locked the boy away in the Serpent House or he would have turned his wand on him there and then and murdered him in a blaze of green.

The Carcerem. He had not thought of that device in decades.

Legs a tangle, fingers interlaced, a messy-haired boy arching, breathlessly gasping, _Tom_ , **_Tom_** _._

Revolted, Voldemort pushed the memory of his counterpart and Potter away. He’d never been tempted to Obliviate himself until now. Allowing the Locket to enter relations with Harry was one thing, but _this_. This was different. This was unacceptable. This was _him_. The original. The creator and master. For Lord Voldemort to debase himself, to lower himself to the whims of another. To _love…_

Sex was a tool to control and manipulate, but what he’d seen in Potter’s memories was nothing of the sort. The knowledge that in a different universe Lord Voldemort allowed himself to sink so low — _an Auror? A babysitter?_ Had he really seen himself buy a toddling child _ice cream_?

Voldemort’s hands clenched, longing to wrap around a neck — any neck. It couldn’t have just been the Carcerem’s doing. Something else must have happened. What had Potter done? How had he hoodwinked the greatest wizard in the world? For twenty years — ever since he’d heard the Prophecy — Voldemort had implemented an unbeatable plan to fortify himself from destruction. He’d thought he’d been successful, but now …

For the first time Voldemort found himself uncertain. The choice to let the Locket entangle himself with Harry was suddenly full of risks that he had not seen until now. The Locket had become bold of late. Borderline mutinous. Was this Harry’s doing? Was the Horcrux too falling under the spell of the green-eyed youth? Was this how self-destruction began? Beneath his very nose, was Harry gaining the upper hand?

Again, the memory of himself — so young, as young as the Locket — appeared. Taking Potter’s face in his hands and kissing him like the boy was everything. Like he was magic itself.

_…AND HE SHALL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT…_

Sybill Trelawney’s words echoed in Voldemort, words that had stilled his hand when he’d gone to Lily Potter nineteen years ago. What power? What power did Lord Voldemort not know? What secret eluded the conqueror of wizarding Britain? He took Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom as infants. He raised them, looking, always looking for this power. He’d seen a wildness in Harry and so his choice had been clear, but though the boy was strong, though the boy was impressive, no other-worldly power presented itself.

Harry could not wield the Silence.

Had Voldemort made a mistake? Did the Prophecy not speak of the Harry Potter who bore his Dark Mark, but of another? Another from a different world? One with a lightning bolt scar? Did it speak instead of a boy who’d already brought a dark lord to his knees?

Broken glass crunched under Voldemort’s steps. He’d give the boy a few hours to recuperate before prying open his mind again. It would do no good for Potter to die before he’d learned everything.

 

**xXx**

 

Iron-gray clouds swirled overhead; the wind turned blistering as rain drops fell. Dumbledore stood silently on the rock. A significant part of Tom did not miss the irony. Here he was, spilling every secret, every wrong-doing and every truth to the one person he’d sworn he never would. For practically Tom’s entire life, he’d seen Dumbledore’s penchant for forgiveness a folly. The Carcerem had changed that. _Harry_ had changed that. For both their sakes everything clung to the chance of an old man doing the impossible and giving Tom a second chance.

“Do you believe me?”

Dumbledore’s face was unreadable, as always. No amount of Legilimency had ever been able to break through his shields.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said at last and relief nearly made Tom lose his balance in the battering wind. “This world you have landed in is far different from the one you are used to. I shall go into the details later. For now, we must find Harry.”

“The factory in Wiltshire,” said Tom at once. “Granger saw him, but it’s been placed under a protection that I can’t break.”

“Protections no one can break,” Dumbledore added grimly. “Once those shields are in place, no one can enter or leave until they are removed.”

“By that time Harry may be dead!”

“I do not believe they will kill Harry,” Dumbledore disagreed.

Tom’s heart beat faster. “You know where Harry is. Where—”

Dumbledore held up his hand, and Tom bristled. “It is a place that is not safe for either of us, but there is someone who can help.” He pulled from his robe pocket a fiery red feather. With a twirl of his wand, the feather vanished in a puff of smoke.

“Come.” Dumbledore strode to him, once more holding out his arm. “It will not be long before we have word.”

“Where are we going?” Tom demanded.

“A safe house. It is the most secure place I can offer you and Harry, once he is returned to us. From there, we will work on a way to send you both back to your world.” Apologetically, Dumbledore added, “I must request that you transfigure yourself once more.”

With an irritable jerk of his wand, Tom acquiesced, donning the same blond hair and mustache he had before.

“Let us be off,” said Dumbledore.

A second later, they appeared on a stretch of empty marsh.

“Safe house three resides on the Murk Fields,” Dumbledore stated calmly and when Tom turned his attention back to the overgrown wetland it was to see a single, small cottage.

“You really do trust me,” said Tom, unnerved.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. He set off, heading toward the house; Tom hurried after him, his shoes sinking slightly in the soggy ground.

“Will this person be able to get Harry out from wherever he’s being held?” Tom pressed. “Because if he can’t —”

“He will,” said Dumbledore. “He is immensely resourceful. Plucking prisoners is nothing new for him.”

It was difficult not to feel insulted, but Tom reminded himself that he was not the Lord Voldemort of this world. After all, _he_ would not have prisoners vanishing under his nose, except … that elf, Dobby, had removed Harry and his friends from Malfoy Manor, completely bypassing Tom’s enchantments. He quickened his pace.

“Are you using a house elf?” he asked.

Dumbledore looked amused. “He would be very insulted if he knew you called him that.”

Tom grew impatient. “Then who —”

They were nearly at the house’s front steps when the door burst open and a man emerged, rushing out to meet them. Tom stopped dead in his tracks.

James Potter.

Tom grabbed Dumbledore by the arm.

“Did you not listen to anything I told you?” he hissed. “Harry can’t stay here. _I_ can’t stay here. I _killed_ that man.”

“There is nowhere else that is safer,” said Dumbledore gravely.

“Don’t play your twisted games with me, Dumbledore,” Tom spat as James Potter grew closer. “I want a safe house that is _empty_.”

“You asked for my help,” Dumbledore replied. “Trust me, Tom.”

Tom ground his teeth. This was horrible. This was worse. Worse than worse. This was Fate and Irony spitting all over him. He suddenly did not think his disguise was nearly strong enough and as James Potter, looking so very much like Harry, stepped before them, Tom wondered if there was a hint of recognition in his eyes.

“Dumbledore,” said James. “Has something happened?”

“Yes. I have news. Is Lily available?”

James nodded. His gaze shifted back to Tom.

“You okay?” he asked, which made perfect sense, as Tom had paled severely at Dumbledore’s words. He cut a furious glare at the old man. Harry’s mother, too? Who else was alive in this fucking world?

  

**xXx**

 

Harry had always found parseltongue disturbing. The bone-chilling spitting and hissing made shivers run up and down his spine, but when Rolf begged Tom for help in mastering the language, Harry found himself changing his opinion, the soft, sibilant sounds issuing from Tom’s mouth turning into something almost hypnotic.

The ninazu lifted its triangular head and flicked a blue tongue.

“Hello,” Harry said in an overly bright, cheerful voice though sweat slid down between his shoulder blades.

The snake cocked its head and Harry concentrated hard on the string of hisses.

“You speak my language?” said the ninazu, sounding startled.

“Yes,” Harry hissed back. “A little.”

“The other one does not.” The ninazu slithered closer. “You look like him but you don’t smell right. Master does not like you,” the snake added, almost as an afterthought.

“No,” Harry agreed, feeling that lying to a ninazu was as dangerous as insulting a hippogriff. “He doesn’t.”

“Why?”

Harry blinked. That was a long story, most of which he didn’t know half the words to. His head began to pound again.

“He’s … angry with me.”

The ninazu’s head swayed from side to side.

“Did he tell you to” — Harry struggled for the right words; Kill? Maim? — “hurt me?”

“ _Skusss.”_ Watch.

Voldemort had given him a jailer. Harry desperately brought back every lesson Tom had given him.

“I’m … lost,” Harry told the snake. “I want … I want …” What was parseltongue for _home_? “Friend,” Harry said instead. “I’ve lost my friend.”

“The other boy?”

The pain in Harry’s head and spine were becoming difficult to ignore. He screwed up his face, wondering if he hadn’t heard the snake right. “Other boy?”

“Yes.” The snake’s forked tongue flicked inches from Harry’s nose. “The boy with toads. Do you have toads?”

“No, but I can get you toads,” said Harry, thinking fast.

It was difficult to read a snake’s expression, but Harry had the feeling it was tempted.

“Master said—”

“It can be our secret.” 

The ninazu swayed with greater agitation.

“Let me go,” said Harry, “and I’ll bring you lots of toads.”

“Fat toads?”

“ _Sl pvist_ ,” Harry replied. The fattest.

The ninazu released an exuberant hiss and darted to the right, vanishing behind a tree so fast it could have been on wheels.

“This way!”

“Hold on!” Harry yelled after it. He wouldn’t be able to do anything if he couldn’t get his hands free. Grimacing against the sick pulsations inside his skull, he closed his eyes and began the tortuously slow process all over again. Gently, he plucked at the threads of magic around his wrists, teasing them apart but they were so slippery they could have been made of oil. A bead of sweat ran down his face.

He heard the ninazu slither back to him. Or he hoped it was the ninazu.

“Why aren’t you coming?” it asked, impatient.

“Just … a bit …”

_Yes!_

The spell dispersed and Harry’s hands were free. He clambered to his feet but almost immediately lost his balance. He reached out and gripped the tree for support, the world spinning.

“You look ill,” the ninazu observed.

“It’s not my best day,” Harry agreed.

“Toads will make you better!” and the snake disappeared again through the underbrush.

Not entirely confident he’d translated that correctly, Harry stumbled after it.

“Slow down,” Harry whispered. Now that he was up and moving, the thought that perhaps the ninazu was not the only snake inside the jungle room hit Harry. He knew Voldemort. Hell, if he let Tom have his own snake house it would be filled to the rafters with Horned Serpents and … Harry paled. Basilisks. He broke into an unsteady run. The white tip of the ninazu’s tail turned onto a path and Harry, hurrying after it, found himself before a large pair of double doors. Harry grabbed the handle —

Locked.

Harry let out a curse of frustration. Undoing knots was one thing, but breaking through locks — he’d never been able to do that.

“Problem?”

Harry looked down. Twined around his ankles, the ninazu looked up at him, its blue tongue tasting the air.

“Do you” — Harry grimaced, struggling for the words — “Exit. Another exit.”

“Why?” it asked, puzzled.

“It’s locked.”

“Then open it,” said the ninazu.

“I can’t,” said Harry, angry. To prove it, he grasped the handle and gave it a yank and his eyes landed upon the carvings in the honey oak. _Oh._

Two snakes were etched into the wood, their eyes inlaid with jewels. It was just like the sealed doors in the Chamber of Secrets.

The word slid on Harry’s tongue. “ _Open._ ”

The doors creaked on their hinges, swinging outward.

“Toads!” cried the ninazu like a child outside a candy shop and before Harry could take a step, the snake shot up his leg, slithering up his calf.

Harry froze as it moved up his body, coiling around his shoulders.

“Toads,” it repeated, tongue tickling his ear.

Harry shivered. “Why don’t you wait here and I’ll bring them—”

The ninazu hissed sharply.

“Okay! Okay!”

Looking both ways, Harry slipped through the doors and flinched, shutting his eyes against the glare. The brightly lit corridor was triply enhanced by white marble floors and walls. His head pounded; his eyes watered. He feared he’d pass out.

“What is wrong?” asked the ninazu.

“I can’t see,” Harry hissed. How was he going to find a way out if he couldn’t see? “The toads are outside. Can you help me? I need to find a way out without anyone seeing me.”

“Secret?”

“Yes. Secret, yes! He’s angry, remember.”

“Left,” said the ninazu in his ear.

Squinting, Harry did as the snake instructed. This must be what it was like to be in a desert with nothing but sun reflecting off miles and miles of white sand. His mind was full of nails and each step, each blinding prick of light, drove them deeper.

_“Stop!”_

Harry jerked at the ninazu’s order. The snake shifted slightly on his shoulders.

“Someone is coming.”

A second later, Harry heard quick footsteps.

“They are coming around the corner,” the ninazu told him in a rush. “They smell —”

But Harry didn’t know the word the ninazu used.

“I don’t under—”

“ _Strike_!”

Harry took that as the ninazu’s word for tackle and so he jumped blindly. He collided with something very solid that cried out in alarm. Eyes squeezed shut, Harry grappled with the unknown person. They rolled on the ground. Harry heard the ninazu hissing and spitting; the stranger let out a strangled curse and the wind was knocked out of Harry as something very hard whacked him in the stomach. Reeling, Harry fell backward.

“Get that fucker away from me, boy!”

Eyes streaming, gripping his stomach, Harry peered at the person he’d jumped.

It wasn’t a wizard. It was a goblin.

He was plastered up against a wall, brandishing a cane at the furious ninazu. Harry blinked his eyes, hard. He looked like…

“Goddammit, boy!” Mrunog Gudar raged. “I’m here to _help_!”

The goblin representative, the goblin who’d been kidnapped by the Tebo for spurring his fellow goblins into discussions of wand rights was being backed into a corner.

“Stop!” Harry hissed at the ninazu.

“Why?” it spat back at Harry.

Harry looked up at Mrunog’s wrinkled, round face. “Why are you helping me?”

“Dumbledore sent me,” he growled, still holding the ninazu back with his cane.

Harry was so thrilled, so amazed, that the pain in his body was forgotten. He scrambled to his feet and scooped up the ninazu.

“Dumbledore knows about me?”

“Of course he knows about you!” Mrunog barked. “Why would I be here if he didn’t? You Order fools are getting more imbecilic by the day. Why you chose to impersonate _him_ for starters …”

The Order? Dumbledore? Harry couldn’t believe it. Finally, things were going his way.

“Keep that devil away from me,” said Mrunog, glaring at the ninazu. “Quick, boy!”

Mrunog’s short strides strode down the stretch of corridor at a fast clip, Harry rushing after him.

“This way, this way!” Mrunog urged, opening a door and looking both ways.

Harry descended a set of steps, the light dimming and air cooling. Dust tickled his nose and as he followed Mrunog down the steps he spotted wine barrels. A cellar. They paused at the foot of the stairs. Harry heard the high-pitched squeaks of house-elves and smelt the delicious aroma of fresh baked bread.

Mrunog led him away from the kitchen, winding deeper into the depths of the cellar, moving past crates and crates of candlesticks. Wound around Harry’s shoulders, the ninazu tasted the air curiously.

“Here.” Mrunog came to a stop, standing before a grimy section of stone wall.

Harry, his stinging eyes calming in the gloom, looked around, expecting Dumbledore to appear from the shadows, but there was no one.

“Where’s —”

“SHHH!” Glowering, Mrunog lifted a long-fingered hand and trailed a sharp, black nail down the stonework. A thin, golden line appeared. He continued to run his nail until the outline of a door burned into life.

“Go!” said Mrunog. “And don’t be stupid enough to get caught again, you fucking bastard.”

Harry wanted to know where Mrunog was sending him. “Is Dumbledore —”

“ _Go!_ ” And showing more strength than Harry would have thought of the squat goblin, Mrunog shoved Harry hard in the back. On instinct, the ninazu tightened its coils around his throat and Harry fell through the stonewall and kept falling as if he’d jumped right off the edge of a cliff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know that very young wizards and witches will demonstrate accidental magic. We also know that Harry has used wandless magic in the books (Prisoner and Phoenix come to mind) when he was extremely upset. And we know that Tom at a very young age had already gained enough control of his magic to use it on purpose (ie wandless). But, the fact remains that in canon wands hold a bigger role of importance than using magic without them. I can imagine that you could learn to use magic entirely without a wand, as it’s mentioned on Pottermore that some cultures do, but that’s a skill you’d have to learn and I imagine it would be a very, very hard one. As fun as it is for Harry to suddenly be all powerful and doing all kinds of magic without a wand, it’s never felt very realistic to me. I like him struggling with certain kinds of magic. It makes him relatable. 
> 
> Also, I love the idea of Tom teaching Harry parseltongue. I have to admit that I was a bit bummed that Ron could speak it in book 7 (it was Harry’s thing!), but so too can Dumbledore. It’s a language, pure and simple, and all languages can be learned. I like to imagine that because it’s seen as a Dark Wizard’s language it’s been stigmatized and shunned. I can see that there probably aren’t very many help books on it and that the best way to learn it would be from someone fluent in it, which at this point, would just be Tom.


	8. SIX

The cottage smelled of bee’s wax and lemon. The floors were tidy and swept, not a cobweb in sight, even on the highest light fixtures and rafters. Tom kept his head down and avoided being drawn into direct conversation as he and Dumbledore entered the house and James Potter called for his wife. She appeared from a side room, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, carrying a small cauldron. It was like stepping back in time. To Tom, the Potters had hardly aged a day since the night he’d murdered them.

Lily Potter’s eyes — _Harry’s eyes_ — swiftly traveled over Tom before focusing upon Dumbledore.

“Thank goodness you’re here. I didn’t know what to do. I just found him.”

She held the cauldron out for Dumbledore.

“Ah! There you are!” Dumbledore cried in delight.

Tom grimaced. Inside the cauldron was a newborn phoenix in a bed of ashes. Dumbledore took the cauldron, thanking her.

“Lily, James, this is Tom. He’s been separated from his companion and is in need of a place to stay. Would you be willing to open up your guest room?”

“Course,” said James without hesitation.

“Thank you. I very much appreciate that.”

From the depths of its cauldron, the phoenix turned its beady-black eyes upon Tom and chirped. At the end of his tether, he gritted to Dumbledore, “How much longer?”

“Soon,” Dumbledore assured him before turning back to the Potters. “We have a situation. We may need some potions, preferably Dreamless Sleep.”

Lily’s eyes widened in surprise and then darkened with concern.

“I don’t have much left.”

“Get what you can spare,” Dumbledore urged. “We will be in the kitchen.”

Tom did not miss the worried expression that passed between the Potters, but Lily disappeared back into the room she’d come from.

Without another word, Dumbledore crossed to a door on the left and Tom and James followed into a kitchen. Chairs scraped against the rough, stone floor and they all sat at a rectangular table. Dumbledore conjured a small nest of fluff, scooped out the phoenix and placed him on the table top. The bird, barely covered in day-old fuzz, pecked at its nest. They only sat in awkward silence for a moment before Lily joined them, taking a seat beside her husband.

“Well?” James asked.

“Earlier today an extremely rare event occurred. So rare that it has only ever been hypothesized,” said Dumbledore. “Fawkes traveled across the dimensional plane.”

At the sound of his name, the phoenix, snuggled in its nest, chirped again.

James blinked.

Stunned, Lily asked, “How do you know?”

“Because he brought two individuals back with him,” Dumbledore replied.

Connecting the dots, Lily and James turned their startled eyes upon Tom while Dumbledore continued, “Tom and Harry —”

“Harry?” James said sharply.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore gently. “Fawkes flew from our world to theirs. They were separated upon their arrival here. Tom appeared in Riddle House, realized what had transpired and sought me out. I believe Fawkes brought them here for a reason.”

Tom caught the insinuation, the same unspoken fear that had been circling in his own brain like a shark. Furious, he turned in his seat.

“We are _not_ fighting your war for you. _Harry_ is not fighting your war.”

“And you are confident he would say the same?” Dumbledore inquired lightly. “From what you told me —”

The anger and terror of _still_ not having Harry by his side sent Tom over the edge. He was on his feet.

“He did what he had to do! He did it because I —” He cut off abruptly. Fists bunched, he whispered fiercely, “ _Because I gave him no other choice.”_

Dumbledore regarded him sadly. “There is always a choice, Tom.”

“What is this?” asked Lily, her face ashen. “What are you talking about?”

“It is not my intention to force Harry or yourself into assisting us,” said Dumbledore. “Our war is our own. Entirely.” He turned back to Lily and James and his gaze softened even more. “The world in which Fawkes traveled to is one where the war is over. Harry did not join the Dark Lord, but fought against him. He did the impossible, saving not only Muggles and Wizarding kind, but the Dark Lord himself. Tom, if you are willing.”

Their eyes were upon him. He felt strangely vulnerable as he removed his enchantments. The mustache that kept tickling his upper lip vanished. The blond hair returned to black.

“You!” James roared. His chair clattered as he jumped to his feet. He whipped out his wand, pointing it at Tom’s heart. Lily sat frozen in her seat.

“James!” Dumbledore urged. “Tom is not our enemy. Please, calm down.”

“Calm down?” James bellowed. “What the hell are you doing bringing _him_ here?”

“He is not who you think he is!” Dumbledore insisted. “I will explain everything —”

“HE DESTROYED MY SON!”

The phoenix suddenly clambered out of its nest and hopped on unsteady legs across the table. It settled itself before Tom, facing James. Uncomfortable, James hesitated and Dumbledore said quickly, “Yes, Tom was once He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The same He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named we are acquainted with. He’s confessed everything to me, his rise to power _and_ his salvation. As of a year ago, Tom works for the Ministry as an Auror, alongside Harry.” He turned back to Tom, his twinkle returning. “I imagine you make a formidable pair.”

James looked flabbergasted.

“I know it is a great deal to take in,” Dumbledore admitted, “but I believe him and I think that if you listen, you will too.”

“Then tell us,” said Lily.

“Lily, you aren’t seriously considering—”

“Yes, James, I _am,_ ” she snapped. _“_ I can see how you might have missed it with all the shouting you’ve been doing, so let me remind you that Harry — _our son_ — is currently out there on his own and you have not asked _once_ where he is! I don’t care who this man is! I don’t care whether he was the Dark Lord or not! I want to know where my son is!”

Furious, Lily turned away from James and addressed Tom and Dumbledore.

“Do you know where he is?”

“A factory in Wiltshire,” said Tom.

“The General was present there,” Dumbledore explained. “A source informed me he was due to inspect it today.”

Paling, James sat quickly. “If he caught Harry —”

“He would interrogate him and learn quite a few troubling facts in the process. It is my belief that he has taken Harry to the Palace.”

Lily covered her mouth. The Potters were suddenly terrified.

“Palace?” said Tom sharply. “What palace?”

“ _Your_ palace,” James growled.

“I don’t have a _palace_ ,” Tom snapped.

James and Lily looked at him startled. Glaring, Tom turned to Dumbledore, anger rising like a viper. “You send me here—”

“Tom—”

“— knowing my counterpart has free reign over Harry—”

“He will not kill Har—”

“He will!” Tom barely registered that his wand was in his hand. He never should have gone to Dumbledore. One misstep and Harry might be … he might be …

Dumbledore rose but his wand remained in his pocket.

“He will not kill Harry. Of this I am certain.”

“ _How?_ ” Tom roared. “How can you _possibly_ know that?”

“Because I know _you_ , Tom. The Lord General would have been alarmed enough by Harry’s presence to inform the Dark Lord.”

Tom’s insides vanished. His heart froze in his chest.

“ _The Dark Lord?_ ”

“Like I said,” Dumbledore repeated heavily, “much is different here. In our world, the Dark Lord — you, if you may forgive me — conquered wizarding Britain over twenty years ago. The man known as the _Lord General_ bears a striking resemblance to you. He is the Dark Lord’s son.”

Dumbledore’s gaze was piercing. Tom could barely breathe. He could see in Dumbledore’s eyes the unspoken word: _Horcrux_. The mysteries of this world snapped into place. The Lord General was not a new fanciful title his other self had created after the Carcerem, as Tom had originally thought, but a Horcrux. Which meant … which meant …

“The Lord General will be shaken by Harry’s arrival and will most likely seek information rather than kill outright. For now, time is on our side.”

Tom disagreed.

“You don’t know me nearly as well as you think you do. The Dark Lord will _kill_ Harry.”

“Put yourself in the Dark Lord’s shoes. For nearly two decades you have had utter control. The Order of the Phoenix is scattered and outnumbered. Uprisings are few and far between. You are secure in every sense of the word and then you discover new, unsettling information. Information which might affect you. _What do you do?_ ”

Tom felt sick.

“I learn everything.”

“Exactly! You will not kill Harry until you have pried all that you can from him. He is too important.”

“But how do we get him out? How can you be sure that this person will retrieve Harry before it’s too late?”

“I know because Mrunog never fails.”

“Mrunog Gudar? The goblin?”

Dumbledore smiled and it was almost smug.

“The Dark Lord enjoys glamor. When he constructed the Palace he made sure it would be the grandest building in all of Europe. Goblins were put to the task and goblins have their own ways with magic, especially when it comes to metal and stone. They created a special and secret fireplace and then bricked it over. Only a goblin can activate it and the only exit has been linked to this house and that fireplace.” Dumbledore pointed at the empty hearth behind him. “Mrunog has achieved a high ranking in the Dark Lord’s circle. He is granted full access to the Palace.”

Magic surged at Tom’s fingertips, longing to burst free. Blood pounded in his ears. He cut his eyes to the fireplace behind Dumbledore. Cold. Empty.

“While we wait, I ask for your permission to relay what you’ve told me,” Dumbledore continued. “It will be good for us to be on the same footing.”

“I don’t care. Tell them whatever you want.” Tom couldn’t return to his seat. He couldn’t take his eyes off the fireplace. He strode toward it and paced up and down, gripping and re-gripping his wand.

“You’re too young to be You-Know-Who,” said James.

“I spent half a year inside the Carcerem with your son,” Tom replied, still pacing, still glaring. “It reverted my age in the process.”

“What’s the Carcerem?” said Lily.

Tom pinched his eyes shut, feeling that he was seconds from going mad.

“A highly dangerous artifact,” Dumbledore explained. “It traps sworn enemies, gifting them the opportunity to make amends.”

Tom’s prowling steps sounded suddenly louder in the silence that fell.

“When did this happen?” Lily asked.

“Shortly before Harry’s eighteenth birthday,” Dumbledore answered.

“And Harry … Harry was never …”

“No,” Tom heard Dumbledore’s soft reply.

As he paced, he spied the look the Potters shared: amazement and sorrow. He paused, once more wishing to understand how Harry’s life here had veered off so dramatically, but before he could ask, the fireplace roared into life, sparks flying. Tom spun back around just as Harry shot out of the towering flames. He banged straight into Tom’s midriff, knocking them both flat.

 

**xXx**

 

The snake was spitting in Harry’s ear. They were falling, falling, falling and then smashed headfirst into something very solid. Harry cried out, his head throbbing worse than ever. The ninazu slithered from his shoulders, but something else — _someone_ else — was gripping him by the arms, pulling him up from the floor —

 Blinking against the splintering light, Harry saw the lips … the refined nose … the sharp cheekbones —

“NO!”

Harry swung his arm, but the Horcrux caught him, squeezing his wrist. Half blind, Harry fought. Kicking, punching. If the Horcrux got close enough, he’d bite him—

“Harry — it’s me! _It’s me.”_

Chest heaving, Harry stilled and the Horcrux’s face came into clearer definition. Harry sucked in a breath.

“ _Tom._ ”

His voice came out as a sob. He sagged into Tom’s arms, clinging to him as Tom buried his fingers in his hair, holding him close.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay.”

 _I’m not_ , Harry thought, shaking. But he could pretend. If he kept his head tucked against Tom’s chest, blocking out the horrible, glaring light and just breathe … he could do that.

The fingers left his hair. They slipped under his chin, making him look up. Harry winced. He kept his eyes shut.

“Look at me.”

Worried he might throw up, Harry shook his head.

“Harry, I need to know. Look at me. Please.”

Bracing himself, Harry opened his eyes and the pain — Harry had never experienced such pain from Legilimency. He recoiled, crying out as if burned. He felt that there were others around him — voices that he half knew. A cool glass was suddenly pressed to his mouth.

“Drink, Harry,” Tom urged.

He swallowed without hesitation.

 

**xXx**

 

Unconsciousness claimed Harry and he sank into Tom’s arms. In the shadows under a glass cabinet, the ninazu watched.

“What’s happened to him?” James demanded, staring down at Harry, terrified.

“Legilimency,” Tom answered darkly.

“We have a room upstairs,” said Lily at once.

Tom slipped his arms beneath Harry and carried him as gently as he could. Lily led the way, Dumbledore and James right behind him. They left the kitchen and moved upward.

“Here,” said Lily, breathless, opening a door.

Tom carried Harry inside a small bedroom and placed him on the bed.

“It will probably be best for Harry to wake with just Tom present,” said Dumbledore, “to reduce the stress.”

It was clear that James and Lily wished to remain, but they nodded, stepping back into the hall. Dumbledore turned to Tom.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Tom shook his head, just as stiff as James Potter.

“Then I’ll leave you with him.”

Tom gave a short nod, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. With a soft click, Dumbledore closed the door behind him and Tom tugged off Harry’s shoes. He put his focus on unbuttoning Harry’s jeans, stripping him down to his boxers. His magic pushed against Harry’s spine. Like a marionette on strings, Harry sat up, chin drooping, arms rising up above his head. Tom worked Harry’s sweater off and found his T-shirt plastered to his skin, drenched in sweat. He removed it too. Harry’s skin erupted into gooseflesh. He released the spell and Harry’s limp form gently settled back onto the bed. Kicking off his own shoes, Tom clambered up beside him, wrapping him up, brushing back the damp fringe and placing a kiss to his forehead. Periodically, a tremor shuddered through Harry, but he remained asleep.

How much damage had been done? Tom wouldn’t know until Harry woke again. He estimated the shot glass of Dreamless Sleep would last half an hour at best. Not enough time. Not near enough time for his mind to repair itself after such aggressive Legilimency. With a short wave of his wand, Tom soundproofed the room. The buzzing of a bee against the window and the distant drum of voices from below vanished instantly. With a swish, the curtain covered the window, dimming the light. He pulled the covers up over them and cradled Harry close.

 

**xXx**

 

A softness, like sunlight diffused through gossamer silk, bathed Harry’s eyelids. He was swathed in gentleness. He opened his eyes and it took a great deal of effort for them to focus, but after a few slow blinks, he recognized the face staring down at him.

“Tom.”

The softness left, replaced with the feeling of being hit over the head by a beater’s club. He must have overdone it again. He kept forgetting he couldn’t hold his liquor the way Tom could.

“I had the worst dream.”

Tom shifted closer, the bed dipping slightly. “Oh?”

Harry’s head pounded. He rubbed his forehead, wishing the room was darker. How much _had_ he drunk?

“It was awful. I was friends with _Malfoy_. You were there, but you weren’t _you_ and _—”_ Harry cut off, seeing Tom’s expression. His heart clenched. “No.”

“Harry.”

“ _No.”_ Tears surged forward before Harry could stop them. He felt incredibly stupid — so fucking stupid — but that didn’t make the tears stop. It only added fuel to the fire, memories flashing. “ _No. God, no._ ”

Tom gripped him by the shoulder, pinning him to the bed. “Harry, it’s going to be okay.”

But Harry’s eyes darted about the room. It wasn’t their suite in Peru. It wasn’t their cottage. It wasn’t anywhere that Harry knew. And he remembered … he remembered …

“It’s real,” Harry whispered. “We’re really —”

“In another world.”

“Why?” Harry demanded, panicking. “Why would Fawkes _do_ that? Why—”

“Harry, I’m going to get us back home. I’m going to make sure of that, but you _must calm down_. Tell me where you appeared.”

“I — I don’t know. I first thought it was the Ministry. I ran into Eddie. But now I think it was some kind of warehouse. They were making … clothes, I think.”

“A factory?”

Harry nodded and the movement caused a sickening stab of pain — like a needle poked in the eye. He grimaced, rubbing circles into his temple.

“Malfoy was there. Umbridge, too. They were _nice_ to me and you—” Harry broke off sharply.

Tom’s voice hardened. “What did the Horcrux do?”

“Questioned me. He thought I was an impersonator.”

“And what did he do when he discovered you weren’t?”

Harry had a suspicion that Tom already knew.

“Vol—”

Tom slapped a hand over Harry’s mouth. “Don’t say it _,_ ” he warned and Harry felt, if it was at all possible, even sicker.

“You-Know-Who,” he corrected quietly, mouth dry. “The Horcrux knocked me out. I wasn’t in the factory when I woke up again. Both of them were there.” Harry couldn’t meet Tom’s eyes. His vision blurred. He blinked up at the ceiling. “I don’t miss the old you,” he said, barely audible.

Tom released a heavy breath. He lowered down beside him. As Tom pressed a kiss to his cheek, Harry realized he was covered in a cold sweat.

“How much did he find out?”

“A lot.” Harry was shaking. He hadn’t noticed that either, not until he was wrapped up in the stability of Tom’s arms. “He knows about us. He wanted me to tell him how I stopped you.”

“Yes, I imagine he’d be very curious about that.”

“I don’t know how much he found out,” Harry went on, his voice now trembling. “I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t—”

“It’s all right, Harry,” Tom soothed.

“I’m — the other me. He’s a —” The words wouldn’t come. It was stupid. It didn’t matter. He knew logically that what his counterpart got up to was no reflection on him, but Harry still glanced down at his left forearm.

“He’s a Death Eater,” Tom supplied softly. “I know. I met him.”

“You did?” said Harry, alarmed.

“You appeared in a factory that had a Horcrux present. I landed in my father’s old manor, though it’s been severely refurbished. Your double was there.”

Harry was stunned. “What did he do?”

“Tried to kiss me.”

“He _what_?”

“They seem to be in a relationship, your counterpart and the Horcrux. He mistook me for him.”

Harry was thrown. “But Vol — sorry — You-Know-Who was really upset when he realized we were together. Like _really_ upset. How can my counterpart and his Horcrux be together and he not know about it?” 

“We’re both very good at keeping secrets. They may be hiding it from him. Though there is another possibility.”

“Which is?” Harry asked warily.

 Tom looked suddenly tired. “It’s far harder to turn against someone if you love them. It’s possible that my other self ordered the Horcrux to seduce him.”

Harry had been wrong. He _could_ feel sicker.

“That’s disgusting.”

“It’s strategy.”

“That doesn’t make it less disgusting.”

Tom was silent and then he said quietly, “Before the Carcerem, I did not understand love. Not really. I saw it as hormones and chemicals, easy to manipulate and subjugate. And I utilized my skills often. If the Horcrux had been placed to keep your double in check, I would not be surprised if his methods turned insidious. It could be that what shook my counterpart wasn’t the knowledge that we’re together, but that I’d fallen in love with you. But none of this,” Tom continued, suddenly in a firmer voice, “matters. We are not them. Nothing in this world has anything to do with us.”

“But —” Harry tried to sit up and gasped as a new pain flared red hot into life.

“What is?” Tom asked at once. “What’s wrong?”

Harry winced. “Could you check something for me?” Carefully, he rolled onto his side, exposing his back. Tom inhaled sharply.

“Is it bad? It feels bad.”

Tom didn’t answer, but Harry felt magic wash over the bruise and with each pass the pain diminished.

“Who did this?” Tom asked, voice as hard as iron.

“The Horcrux. His stunner was a bit heavy-handed.”

“You’re lucky your spine wasn’t fractured.”

“That’s me,” said Harry bitterly. “Always lucky.”

Tom gripped him by the shoulder and gently returned him to lying on his back and suddenly Harry was being kissed, full and deep and stomach-swooping.

“They’ll never touch you again,” Tom promised. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Harry shook his head.

Tom carded his fingers through Harry’s hair. “Are you in pain?”

Harry knew he was referring to the Legilimency that had ripped through his mind, but the headache was dwindling. The light didn’t bother him as much.

“I’m okay.”

Tom looked like he didn’t believe him, but he let it drop.

“Where are we?” Harry asked.

“Somewhere in the Murk Fields.”

Again, Harry glanced about the room. His clothes, strewn on a chair and the floor, cluttered up an otherwise tidy bedroom. How had he even ended up here? He remembered falling through a fireplace … Mrunog Gudar —

He sat up so fast, Tom cursed at him.

“ _Will you lie still?”_

“Dumbledore,” Harry breathed. “Mrunog Gudar. He helped me escape. He said _Dumbledore_ had sent him.” He turned to Tom, his heart racing. “Is Dumbledore … is this…”

“A safe house for the Order of the Phoenix,” Tom answered shortly. “Yes.”

Harry’s mouth fell open.

“I knew you were trapped in that factory, but it was sealed,” Tom explained. “Even I couldn’t get inside it. I needed help so I went to the only person who would believe my story.” Tom glared at him, waiting for him to put two and two together.

“You went to Dumbledore,” Harry said slowly.

“I told him everything. He’s agreed to house us until we find a way back home. The _bird_ ,” he added acidly, “will be of little use as it is currently no larger than a newly hatched duckling.”

Harry reeled. Dumbledore was alive; his double was a Death Eater; a Horcrux walked among the living; and he and Tom were sandwiched in the middle. For what purpose? Why had Fawkes done this?

“I’ll get you some tea. _Stay put_ ,” Tom added firmly. He placed another kiss to his forehead, rose from the bed and slipped from the room, closing the door behind him.

Harry’s heart pounded a violent rhythm that made his fingertips tingle.

He was a Death Eater.

He was a _Death Eater_.

Harry couldn’t comprehend it. There’d never been a moment when he’d been tempted. Had this other Harry been forced? Blackmailed? Tricked?

 _That must have been it_ , Harry thought feverishly. _He did it to save someone._

A vision of Ron or Hermione or Ginny captured by Voldemort sprung into life and he, Harry, agreeing to join his ranks in order to save their lives. Harry liked that picture. Liked it so much, he was confident it had been the reason.

He couldn’t hold still. Sliding off the bed, he retrieved his jeans and sweater, forgoing his damp T-shirt. Straightening his glasses, he eased the door open, and, whisper soft, moved down a hallway toward a staircase. Traveling down the stairs, he heard voices. He and Tom weren’t alone in the house and they … they sounded like …

“Can you believe this? It’s incredible.”

“I know,” a woman replied. “Our Harry. Our Harry saved the world.”

His foot slipped on the last step, staring at a half-shut door to the right. He _knew_ those voices, but it was impossible. He moved so swiftly, his feet could have been on skates. He was at the door, listening, heart thundering.

“Do you think we can trust him? Riddle?”

“Dumbledore does and you saw how frantic Riddle was about getting Harry to safety.”

“But he’s _You-Know-Who,_ ” said the man, strained.

“Harry?”

Harry flinched. So absorbed in listening to the voices on the other side of the door, he did not hear the soft tread of feet approaching from behind. Dumbledore — whole, alive, kind-faced Dumbledore — stood before him.

“They’re —” Harry’s vocal cords weren’t working. “They’re—”

“Alive,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Would you like to see them?”

_Yes._

Yes and no and yes and no.

Harry couldn’t form words. He shook worse than when he’d been tortured. He was stuck, his mind on a perpetual loop, revolving around the single searing word: _alive._

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t possible. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a hallucination. This was _real_. They were alive. His mother. His father. _Alive._

Dumbledore’s gaze was as knowing as ever. A universe’s distance didn’t matter; the man could read Harry like a textbook. He held out a hand.

“I often find that company helps when we are faced with difficulty.”

Throat tight, Harry took Dumbledore’s hand as if it was a raft in a buckling sea. Dumbledore beamed, and together, they entered the room. At once, his mother and father broke off their conversation.

“Harry!” his dad cried, relieved. “You’re up. Thank Merlin.”

They hurried to him.

A tremor shot through Harry. His grip on Dumbledore tightened.

His mum’s brow furrowed in concern. “Harry, why are you crying? Do you need a potion? Are you in pain?”

Harry blinked, noticing the tears on his lashes for the first time. With each second that he stared in silence, his mum and dad grew more worried. They glanced at Dumbledore.

“Harry?”

He released his death grip on Dumbledore and leapt, grabbing his dad, hugging him, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Two sets of arms wrapped around him, squeezing him tight.


	9. Three Feathers

_The first time Harry did magic, he felt safe._

Here was something he could control. If he was cold, the fireplaces burst into action. If he was bored, he sent dancing lights shooting across the ceiling, mimicking the constellations. If he was angry, he slashed his pillows, turning the bed into a massacre of stuffing.

Magic was armor and sword, power and security. Magic was salvation when loneliness crept out from the shadows.

_Look what I can do_ , Harry would think fiercely, sending paper birds on an aerial dance about his four-poster, when all he wanted was to go _home_. Home with his mum and dad. Home without the heavy weight of expectation following him everywhere he went. Home where he could just be Harry.

Or, at least, he assumed home would be those things. He actually had no idea. He’d never set foot in Godric’s Hollow.

The birds spiraling around his bedroom on this sleepless night were not made of paper. Since gaining his wand at eleven, he’d advanced quickly: ice, fire. His favorite was smoke. They were like death’s crows, swooping around his bed posts, leaving a trail of wisps behind.

Tomorrow he would turn fifteen and for the first time in a long time he was looking forward to it. Usually he hated his birthdays, the best day and worst day sandwiched into one.

Three hours on his birthday. Three hours on Christmas. The Dark Lord did not forgive easily. Harry suspected he never would. He supposed he should be grateful. Most of the Order of the Phoenix were either dead or in Azkaban. His parents were one of the few who’d chosen allegiance to the Dark Lord rather than imprisonment when Britain fell. Harry knew all of this. History lessons were conducted twice a week.

Six hours a year with letters in between. The best six hours and the worst. In the week prior to their visits, Harry always grew distracted during lessons, mentally collecting conversation topics, fearing the dreaded awkward silence, but he need never have worried for the silences were never awkward. They were kind and gentle, full of warm hugs and warmer smiles. It was only in the very beginning when his mum and dad entered the drawing room that things were ever strange between them, but only because Harry hesitated, his training to be formal raging war with the desperation to run out and meet them himself at the Palace gates, rules be damned. Harry wouldn’t even say hello, the word catching in his throat, but he was always the first to move, the first to cross the rug and fall into their open arms. They would settle in a secluded corner somewhere in the North Wing and talk and talk and talk until Snape was standing in the doorway and Harry would swear that only twenty minutes had gone by.

“We’ll write to you the moment we get home,” his mum would always say, squeezing him tight.

Harry let his conjured birds dissolve away. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Twelve minutes to midnight. Confident that Neville would still be awake, Harry slid off his bed, donned his dressing gown, and slipped from his bedroom. He crossed the dark hall and knocked on Neville’s door.

“Come in.”

Sitting cross-legged on his four-poster, Neville’s smile was more watery than usual, but he still welcomed Harry cheerfully.

“Look what they got me.”

“It’s not a toad!”

 Every year, for reasons that Harry still did not understand, Neville’s mum and dad gave him a toad for his birthday.

Neville’s smile turned radiant as Harry joined him on the bed.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“ _Mimbulus mimbletonia!_ ” said Neville, rapturously. “Ever sense I read that book on magical plants in the library, I’ve wanted one.”

“Why?” Harry asked after a pause, taking in the stunted, gray cactus. It was covered in small boils rather than spines. Honestly, it didn’t seem much better than the toads.

“It’s really rare!” Neville explained. “It shoots this awful smelling sap if it feels threatened — though I haven’t tried that yet. It blooms in the winter and the flowers have incredible properties that increase agility and strength. Warriors used to uproot them and carry them around in pots. They’d brew the flowers before big battles and then set the mimbulus mimbletonia around their camps as booby traps, but doing that nearly led to its extinction, which is why this is so cool.”

Neville gazed down at his slightly pulsating cactus fondly.

“Wow,” said Harry. “That is cool.”

“What d’you think your mum and dad are getting you?”

Harry shrugged. “Probably a book.” They had last year, anyway. The neatly wrapped gifts never mattered to him though. He was always far too overwhelmed by just them being there. S _eeing_ them. Hearing their voices. _Touching_ them. That was the only gift that mattered to Harry.

They sat in silence, Neville gazing at his strange plant and Harry pretending to do the same but his mind was elsewhere. Finally, he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“The General’s going to train me.”

Neville’s mouth fell open. “ _What?_ ”

“I met with him after lessons today. He told me.”

“ _That’s_ where you disappeared to,” said Neville, dawning realization spreading over his face, and then his face darkened. “So it’s happening.”

Their futures had been an unspoken trajectory, one that both of them had known for as long as they’d been alive. To live under the Dark Lord’s roof? To be privately tutored by his most trusted servants? Of course the Dark Mark waited for them. When he was younger, Harry had dreaded it, fear of disappointing the Dark Lord enough to make him break out into a cold sweat, but now, on the cusp of fifteen, Harry saw potential. He saw solutions.

“What’s he like?” Neville asked, for he, like Harry, had never spoken to the Dark Lord’s son.

Harry took a moment to find the right word. “Intense. He almost poisoned me.”

“So like Snape,” said Neville with a weak attempt at humor.

“Sort of. He’s a little … I don’t know.” The word ‘unhinged’ toyed on Harry’s tongue. He decided to keep it to himself.

“Why do you think the Dark Lord’s splitting us up?” Neville asked. “Or do you think the General will train me too?”

“I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” said Harry, though the fact that the General – _Tom_ – had only called for him and not Neville caused a distinct feeling of unease.

“Do you ever …” Neville broke off and Harry looked at him curiously. Neville’s eyes darted about the room. He lowered his voice. “Do you ever think about … getting away?”

Harry stared. He barely moved his lips as he replied, “There _is_ no getting away.”

“But if there was,” Neville whispered, “would you?”

Harry mouthed, completely thrown. They were chained to the Palace, figuratively and physically. The wards kept them within the grounds. It was like walking into an invisible brick wall when they went too far. He’d gained enough bruises and bloody noses that Harry purposefully kept to the inner grounds. They weren’t even allowed to go to Hogwarts as everyone else their age did. On the occasions Draco and his parents visited the Palace, he turned Harry and Neville green with envy at the stories he shared about the castle and the village of Hogsmeade. 

“Of course,” Harry breathed, “but there _isn’t_.” At the tightening of Neville’s lips, Harry hissed, “ _Don’t be an idiot._ ”

“But if he’s alive … my parents say—”

“It doesn’t matter whether Dumbledore’s alive or not,” said Harry in a strangled voice, furious that they were even having this conversation. Like Neville, he looked over his shoulder, though they were quite alone. “He _lost_. It’s because of him that we’re in this mess.”

Neville looked at his strangely.

“It’s because of the _Dark Lord_ that we’re in this mess. Our parents stood against him because they believed he was wrong.”

“Neville—”

“And he _is_ wrong,” Neville continued in a harder voice, as if he wasn’t entirely sure whether Harry knew this. “He’s a murdering tyrant—”

“I _know_ , Neville.”

“My parents are going to get me out,” said Neville firmly. “They told me today. They’re making plans. I bet your mum and dad are doing the same. We can get out together! The moment we’re seventeen—”

“Don’t you think we’d be more useful if we stayed?” Harry interrupted.  “I’m not saying that I _want_ to be a Death Eater,” he added swiftly at the stunned expression on Neville’s face. _“_ I just know that by being one, life will get easier for us. We’ll be allowed privileges. We’ll have influence.”

Clarity fell upon Neville’s face. Suddenly, he looked deeply sad.

“Oh, Harry.”

“What?” Harry snapped, a rage he hadn’t even realized he held bursting free. “ _What?_ Being a Death Eater is the only way we can fix anything. Don’t you see that? Both your parents are pure-blood, but my mum’s lower than a _squib_. Your mum doesn’t have to work fourteen hours straight in a factory! Your mum isn’t banned from the floo network or stripped of her wand every day! If I get high enough in the rankings —”

“The Dark Lord will never help your mum, no matter how many orders you follow.”

“We’re here for a reason,” Harry gritted, defiantly.

“As punishment! Our parents were at the helm of the resistance. They were as wanted as Dumbledore! Taking us from them was his way to keep them in line! You _know_ this, Harry.”

“I think there’s more to it.”

Harry had to believe that. He had to believe he had value. A hidden talent. A secret strength. Something the Dark Lord wanted and would eventually bend to. Something that gave him leverage.

“And what would your mum say?” Neville demanded. “What would she say about you killing Muggle-borns, all in the name of helping her?”

Harry wanted to punch Neville. He wanted to shout in his face that he couldn’t say a _fucking thing_ about what his mum would or wouldn’t say. He clambered off the bed.

“Happy birthday,” he spat.

He stormed from the room, but not before hearing Neville’s quiet reply.

“You too.”

The clocks chimed midnight.


	10. SEVEN

The moment Tom left the bedroom, the urge to stride right back in and wrap himself around Harry hit him like a hammer, but he knew Harry needed space and to be honest, so did Tom. The sight of Harry’s back, so purple it was nearly black, had Tom seeing red, a telltale warning that he needed to cool off before he blasted a hole in the wall.

He headed down the stairs and came across no one, but when he reached the last step, he heard the Potters’ voices coming from behind a closed door. With no intention of joining them, he passed it and entered the kitchen. 

He tapped his wand against a kettle and instantly it filled with water. He chose two cups from the cupboard and the soft hiss of the ninazu issued from beneath it. He’d completely forgotten about her.

Crouching down, he asked, “And what was your plan?”

The snake’s pale face peeked out from under the cupboard. “I am confused. You smell like Master, but you aren’t Master. You and the boy make no sense.”

“The Dark Lord owns you” — Tom narrowed his eyes — “and yet you helped his prisoner escape?”

The ninazu coiled in on herself, shamed.

“I was tricked. He said he knew where there were toads.”

Tom snorted. He stood and cracked open the kitchen’s back door, birdsong erupting.

“No tricks. Enjoy the feast.”

Intrigued, the ninazu flicked her forked tongue and then shot past Tom, vanishing into the grass. The kettle began to whistle. He shut the door and returned to his search for tea. He found a tin of Muggle-brand bags. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he ripped open the packages, plopped them both in the cups and poured hot water up to the brims.

What would Harry do when he discovered his parents were alive?

Grimacing, Tom carried the cups out of the kitchen, trying to formulate the best way to tell him, but the door where he’d heard the Potters’ voices was now open. Dumbledore’s star-burst robes were visible and —

The tea sloshed over the cups’ rims as Tom veered off course, bypassing the stairs and entering the room they were gathered. At the sound of his arrival, Harry turned from his parents’ embrace. He looked furious.

 

**xXx**

 

Harry was beyond angry. He was livid.

“Harry—” Tom began.

“Sorry,” Harry interrupted, speaking to his parents and Dumbledore, “but Tom and I need to talk. Could you give us a minute?”

“Of course,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. “Lily, I’ve been meaning to get an update on your supply of bezoars …”

Tom shifted slightly out of the way as they trooped past. His dad shot him one final glance before clicking the door shut.

Tom opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Lips pressed thin, Tom set the cups of tea he held down on a side table.

“I didn’t think it was the right time,” he replied.

“The right time?” said Harry in a strangled voice. “Just when, exactly, did you think the right time would be?”

“When you wouldn’t be hysterical.”

“Oh? Am I’m being hysterical?”

“Harry—”

“Because why in the _world_ wouldn’t I be _hysterical_?” Harry went on. “Why would anyone meet their dead parents and not go: Wow! Been a long time!”

Furious, Tom pointed his wand at the door, muffling the room. “ _Keep your voice down._ They don’t know.”

Harry jerked as if he’d missed a step. “They don’t — know?”

“That I murdered them?” hissed Tom harshly. “No. Dumbledore and I both felt that wasn’t the best way to introduce myself.”

Harry’s knees gave out along with his anger. He dropped onto a couch, stunned.

“They have no reason to think otherwise,” Tom explained in a gentler tone. “Though a great deal is different in our worlds, here, they are alive and so they expect the same to be true in our world. I’m sorry you found out the way you did. That was not my intention.” His voice hardened slightly. “I _did_ tell you to stay put.”

“I never stay put,” Harry replied without thinking. “Do they … do they live here?”

“I believe so. Are you all right?”

Harry remained perched on the edge of the couch, feeling like he was a rubber band stretched to its limit. Any moment he’d snap.

“Yeah,” he answered. “I’m fine.”

“Harry.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, and though his voice was a higher octave, though tremors shook his hands, he would say it again and again and again until it was true.

Tom’s jaw tightened in frustration, but a soft knock on the door stopped the discussion from continuing. Dumbledore’s head appeared around the door.

“Dinner will be ready soon.”

“We’ll take it upstairs,” said Tom before Harry could speak.

Dumbledore seemed to hesitate, before entering the room and shutting the door behind him.

“I know how difficult it is to be under this roof for _both_ of you. There are other safe houses I could send you to, but I recommend that you stay here as it contains the two people who will be the most dedicated to your protection.”

“Why did Fawkes bring us here?” Harry asked.

“I can only guess. He’s been melancholy of late, though, to be fair, he is always melancholy when a Burning approaches. Tell me, do you possess a wand of holly, Harry?”

“Yes,” said Harry, puzzled that he would ask such a question.

“And you, Tom. Your wand is yew, I take it?”

“Yes,” Tom replied, his voice clipped.

“And they both contain a feather from Fawkes?”

“Yes,” Tom answered shortly. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Out of all the cores — dragon heartstring, unicorn hair — the phoenix is the rarest because the phoenix _gifts_ the material to the wand maker. Ollivander told me Fawkes appeared in his shop on a balmy night in August 1937. A year later, one of the two wands created from his feathers was bought, by you and your counterpart,” Dumbledore said, peering at Tom over his half-moon spectacles. “Because of this act of giving, phoenixes stay connected to the wands they helped create, and in turn, to the witches and wizards the wands choose. I believe Fawkes sensed the pair of you. Sensed a healing and a bonding between his only two wands and brought you both here in a hope of helping two more souls find a similar end.”

Chills spread up Harry’s arms.

“That,” said Tom, “is the most imbecilic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it?” Dumbledore asked, not remotely abashed. “It could be. Fawkes might have simply flown a bit too far.”

“This isn’t a game, Dumbledore,” Tom snarled.

“No,” Dumbledore agreed. “It certainly is not.”

Harry sat up straighter. “Can Fawkes send us back?”

“Not at this time, I’m afraid. He will be full grown again in three and a quarter months. As to whether he will, I cannot say.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Tom hissed.

“Tom—”

Tom ignored Harry. He stormed toward Dumbledore, seething.

“I told you before, Dumbledore. We are not fighting your war.”

“And I have told you, I do not wish for you to do so. What I am saying, Tom, is that I am no master of Fawkes. He has chosen to spend his days with me not out of force on my part, but of free choice from him. Bringing the pair of you here was entirely his decision; I am simply attempting to explain what his motivations might have been. I am no more able to order him to send you back as I am to order the sun not to shine.”

“Are you saying that our departure is on the whims of a _flying pincushion_?” Tom bellowed.

“We will get you back,” Dumbledore assured them. “But it will take _time_.”

Tom ground his jaw and paced up and down the room, looking murderous.

 “This house is secure,” Dumbledore continued. “You are both safe here. I only request that you do not explore past the wards. Harry, does the Dark Lord know that Tom is here as well?”

“No,” Harry said after a pause. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Good. I imagine he was quite disturbed by what he discovered from you.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” said Harry darkly.

“If he learns that you _both_ are here, he will become even more determined to find you. I still have some trusted contacts among the Unspeakables; I will theorize with them about possible methods of transportation. Your wand, Harry, do you still have it?”

Tom looked at Harry sharply and Harry blinked like a deer caught in the headlights.

“No,” he answered, registering this for the first time and it left him even colder.

“I’ll see what I can do about retrieving it. In the meantime, you can borrow one of ours. We’ve collected spare wands over the years.” Dumbledore turned for the door. “I imagine you are both worn and weary. I will leave you to your dinner.”

But the one question that had been burning inside Harry ever since he’d seen the poster over the factory workers — _Magic is Might_ — burst out of him.

“How did it happen? How did he take over?”

“We lost,” said Dumbledore simply.

“But the Prophecy…”

“Yes. Tom told me about that. You see, I have not been Hogwarts’ headmaster for twenty-one years,” Dumbledore explained. “Evan Rosier is. He must have been the one the Prophecy was addressed to.”

“So You-Know-Who has known the Prophecy all along?” said Harry.

“It seems likely,” said Tom.

“I could expound upon the details of the differences between our worlds to exhausting measures, but I don’t think that would do either of you good,” said Dumbledore. “Eat. Rest. We will look after you. We will sort this out.” He put one hand on the doorknob, but stopped and looked back over his shoulder. His lips formed a soft smile. “And Harry, happy birthday.”

 

**xXx**

 

Rosier bowed deeply as Voldemort stepped out of the Headmaster’s fireplace.

“My Lord, how may I be of service?”

Voldemort cast his eyes upon the portraits lining the walls. They did not meet his gaze.

“I have business to attend to in the castle,” he told Rosier. “I will not need your assistance.”

Rosier was not swift enough to mask his relief. He bowed again.

“Very good, My Lord. I wish you success in your dealings.”

Voldemort left him, descending down the spiraling staircase. He strode through Hogwarts, not coming upon any ghost or professor. Not even the poltergeist dared to cross his path.

He came upon the door he sought and entered the bathroom. It had taken him years to find the Chamber of Secrets. He had looked everywhere, inspected every suit of armor, every painting, every fireplace, every stone statue, but for naught. The Chamber eluded him. He’d nearly given up until one lucky afternoon when he’d overheard Walburga Black demand that the girl’s bathroom on the second floor should not permit mudbloods for it was clearly of Salazar Slytherin’s design, all thanks to an etching of a snake on one of the taps.

Like a film on a loop, Voldemort saw Potter plunge a fang into his diary. He closed his eyes against the memory, fortifying himself for what must be done.

“ _Open._ ”

The floor vibrated, the sink lowered down and the long, black pipe was revealed. He did not slide downward, but flew like smoke on the wind. He flew past a recently shed skin. He flew past bones, rat and human alike. He flew until he reached the Chamber with its pillars of serpents. He touched down at Salazar Slytherin’s feet. He wondered if the great wizard would make the same choice if he was in Voldemort’s position.

_“Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four.”_

Far overheard, the statue’s mouth opened and the basilisk emerged, his great body uncoiling from the depths of the statue.

“Hello, old friend. Did you enjoy the Muggles I sent?”

The basilisk bowed his head, allowing Voldemort to touch him, and the snake hissed in appreciation. Voldemort had wanted to bring the basilisk to the Palace, but the snake had been against it, insisting that Hogwarts was his home.

“You are troubled,” the basilisk observed.

“I am. I have come to a painful realization.” Voldemort’s hand stroked the smooth scales that shimmered under the torchlight, shimmered as if they were encrusted in emeralds. “I have a vulnerability.”

The basilisk snorted and Voldemort, against all odds, felt a half smile tug on his lips.

“I did not foresee it until now,” he amended. He stepped away from the basilisk, taking in the sweeping chamber, his youthful hideaway. The hours he had spent down here, dreaming and planning his future. He knew he would never return to it after today. He drew his wand.

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

Surprise crossed the basilisk’s face before it fell to the ground, its heavy coils making the floor shudder.

“It was necessary,” Voldemort whispered over the corpse.

He waved his wand and flames engulfed the snake’s body, filling the Chamber with smoke.

 

**xXx**

 

Harry was distinctly aware of how bright the kitchen was. He felt that suddenly he had perfect vision. His mother’s hair was not simply _red_. Orange and gold and even hints of plum glinted in the strands. His father sported a week old stubble.

Harry stood like a fool, tongue-tied. What do you say to the people you’d always longed to speak to? Looking just as hesitant, his mum and dad stood across the table.

Breaking the silence, Tom asked, “Do you have wine?”

“Only butterbeer,” said his dad. “They’re in the pantry.”

Tom’s expression turned stony.

“Get me one?” Harry asked.

“Only for you.”

Harry blushed.

“Sit, sit,” his mum insisted. “Dinner’s almost ready. We didn’t have much time, but we’ve fixed up some of your favorites.”

Harry stared at her blankly. “You didn’t have to—”

“Don’t be silly,” said his mum. “It’s your birthday!”

But it wasn’t just his birthday, Harry realized. It was also his counterpart’s. And where was he? He should be here, in Harry’s place. Not god knows where doing god knows what.

Tom joined him at the table and handed him a butterbeer and Harry mentally shoved aside the unease his double sparked within him.

“Here we are,” said his mum, levitating an enormous shepherd’s pie, a dish of buttered peas (Harry grinned at Tom, who rolled his eyes), seared tomatoes, and for desert, his dad presented a stunning treacle tart.

“This is … this is … thank you.”

His parents beamed.

 

**xXx**

 

Snape had not been his sole reason for visiting Hogwarts. The only tame herd of thestrals resided in the Forbidden Forest and Harry needed one. A Portkey would have done the job quicker, but Portkeys could be traced. Thanks to the horse’s incredible speed, Harry arrived to the Sahara by sunset.

And it was _still_ hot.

The thestral touched down on the crest of a dune and Harry dismounted. Grimacing, he transfigured his black robes to white, covering his head. The thestral flexed its wings, stretching its neck luxuriously in the heat.

“Show off,” Harry muttered, his glasses slipping down his sweaty nose. He pulled out his wand and quickly located the marker he’d left in his last search. “Point me.”

The holly spun on his open palm and jerked to a stop. Harry set off to his right, continuing his long northward trek. Of course Voldemort would hide it in the Sahara. Harry supposed it could be worse. The rain forest, for instance, or tucked instead the heart of a volcano. A year ago, when he’d realized the vastness of the task before him, Harry had sought help from the locals, but the moment they realized what he was looking for, they’d all emphatically brushed him off. The Vanishing Sands, they called it, a mysterious place on the dunes where no one ever returned. The sun cast his shadow long and narrow. How many more months would he have to search? Sand slid under his feet as he climbed a dune that looked like every other dune, the thestral meandering slowly after him. A strong wind kicked up and Harry turned, protecting his face. The wind blew past him, chasing itself over the next sandy hill, and he felt it — that sizzle under the skin that had nothing to do with the heat.

He was close.

Heart thundering, Harry closed his eyes and focused.

_Where are you?_

The threads of magic he knew so well — as well as his own — sang out to him, as haunting as siren song. He turned a quarter to the left. Was the heat radiating off the sand or was that wrinkle in the air an advanced Disillusionment? Carefully, Harry stepped closer to it.

Without warning, the Dark Mark burned red hot on his skin. He doubled up, hissing from the pain.

_“Fuck.”_

The Dark Lord wanted him. Did he know where Harry was? But how could he? _Tom_ didn’t even know. The mark burned again and Harry knew there was no time to dawdle. He dug out his personal Portkey from the depths of his robe. Flying back with the thestral would take too long. He set another invisible marker at his feet.

_I’ll be back,_ he promised.

“Go back to Hogwarts,” he told the thestral. “Go!”

As the thestral expanded its wide, leathery wings, Harry gripped the Portkey in his fist. With a tap of his wand it glowed brilliant blue. Instantly, he was yanked by the navel. A blink later, his feet slammed onto hard ground. He was in the Palace’s Apparition Chamber. Swiftly, he transfigured his robes back to their previous state, his sweat chilling so fast, goosebumps erupted.

The fireplace behind him burst into life and Peter Pettigrew tumbled out of the hearth. Not sparing Harry a glance, Pettigrew ran past him. Harry quickly followed, knowing exactly where they were both headed. Harry’s mouth went dry as he entered the Founders’ Hall. Every Death Eater was present. There hadn’t been a mass meeting in over a year. Quietly, Harry wormed his way through the ranks, taking his place next to Snape.

“You’re late,” Snape muttered under his breath.

“I got in before the —”

A loud echoing bang sounded, making a few twitch in their places, as the doors to the hall sealed shut. Snape lifted a black eyebrow, unimpressed. Silence in the hall fell; all attention turned to the raised pedestal in the center of the hall where Voldemort stood.

“Thank you for coming so swiftly.” He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but his voice carried clear and sharp. “Some of you already know why I have summoned you this evening.”

Farther down the line, nestled between his parents, Draco shot Harry a frightened look.

“This afternoon, an individual infiltrated Factory Seven. No lasting damage was done, and the culprit was apprehended. Most unfortunately, after I questioned him, he escaped the Palace.”

Shock and surprise rustled through the ranks. Harry was alarmed. For anyone to escape the Dark Lord was a monstrous feat. To do it inside the Palace was something else entirely.

“Someone helped him,” Voldemort said softly.

A different sort of ripple ran through the Death Eaters as Voldemort’s glare scorched over them.

“This traitor will be found,” Voldemort promised. “I will see to that personally. As to the boy who fled …”

His eyes shifted, fixing upon Harry.

“His name is Harry Potter.”

Harry blinked stupidly, sure that he hadn’t heard right. The Death Eaters buzzed about him.

“He came to us from another world,” Voldemort continued. “It is paramount that he be captured. Unlike our Harry, this visitor is not a Death Eater.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. Not a Death Eater? How could he not be a Death Eater?

“I want him brought to me alive. The one who does so will be greatly rewarded.”

Down the line, Alecto and Amycus grinned at each other.

Bellatrix stepped forward. “My Lord, how did this happen? Are you sure it was not an Order impostor?”

“I questioned him myself, Bella, as did the Lord General.”

Harry’s eyes darted to where Tom stood, arms crossed, leaning against a pillar, his face impassive as ever.

“How he arrived here is one of the numerous mysteries I intend to solve,” said Voldemort, his eyes burning with murder. “Find him.”

At once, the Death Eaters dispersed, moving to the ends of the hall. Harry had the impression Snape wished to speak to him, and Draco was trying to catch his eye, but Harry dodged them both, weaving his way to Tom.

“Come with me,” Tom ordered. They left the hall and Apparated to Riddle House. Tom marched to the Drawing Room, heading straight to the giant liquor cabinet set against one wall.

“Why were you late?” Tom asked, pouring himself a shot of Firewhisky.

Harry knew all of Tom’s moods and tonight’s was bloody. Inside his robe pocket, the Portkey rested. If Tom asked to see it … if he inspected it …

“I was with the Finland Giants,” Harry lied. “I thought I could convince them to join us.”

“And?” With a click of glass on glass, Tom returned the bottle to its tray.

“They need more time.”

“Of course they need more time, but I already told you that.”

Wariness slipped into Harry’s chest. “This other me, you really questioned him?”

“Oh, yes,” Tom breathed. Glass in hand, he strolled to him and it took everything Harry had to remain perfectly still. “He looks just like you, but I suppose that goes without saying, as he is you.”

“He isn’t,” said Harry without even pausing to consider the matter.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Tom mused, standing nearly chest to chest. “How the threads of our lives seem nothing more than choice and chance. For example, isn’t it extraordinary that you serve me” — Tom trailed a finger along Harry’s left arm, directly over the Dark Mark hidden under the sleeve — “while your twin defies me.”

“You don’t know that he’s against us,” said Harry. “Just because he didn’t take the Dark Mark —”

“Because he didn’t take the Dark Mark tells me everything. You don’t seem particularly upset by this revelation. Why Harry, are you not as loyal to your Lord — _to me_ — as you have claimed to be?”

“Of course not. I’m _surprised—_ ”

“Surprised. I see. Not disturbed? Not furious? Merely _surprised_.” The room seemed to drop in temperature from his icy rage. “Have I wasted my days on you? Is this doppelgänger a foretelling of your true feelings? Are you nothing more than that Longbottom fool?”

A tremor shook Harry’s hands. He clenched his fists.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Harry repeated, vehement. “I serve you. I always have.”

“Always?” Tom breathed.

“Yes.”

“There is no order I could give you that would make you pause? No command that you would not obey? Not even, say, the execution of _yourself_?”

“If he’s a traitor to you, he’s a traitor to me,” Harry stated simply. “Is that what you intend to do once you’ve found him?”

Tom did not reply, but the answer was clear. He threw back the glass, swallowing the whiskey in one go.

“Where do you think he went?” Harry asked.

Tom smirked.

“Where all lost boys go when there is nowhere left to run. Home.”


	11. EIGHT

The insistent cheerfulness of a robin woke him. Cracking open an eye, Tom glared at the offending bird, perched on a branch outside the window. Where was that ninazu when you needed it? Ignoring its grating singing, he rose up onto one elbow and looked down at Harry, watching him sleep.

Worry. Worry ate at him. He had to get them out of here. He had to get them back home, as quickly as possible. The question was _how_. He left the bed and though the robin sang shrilly behind the glass, Harry slumbered on, curling more around his pillow. Tom dressed, gently closed the door behind him and descended the stairs. His shoulders, already stiff with stress, tensed even further with the prospect of yet another encounter with the Potters. Everyone had been on their best behavior during last night’s dinner, but Tom couldn’t help but wonder how long that would last. Bracing himself, he entered the kitchen and found it empty.

He felt instantly relieved, and then:

“Ah, Tom, I was hoping I wasn’t popping in too early.”

Tom turned. “Dumbledore.”

He stepped into the kitchen. “How are you? How is Harry?”

“We’re fine.”

Taking a seat, Dumbledore touched the teapot set in the center of the table with the back of his hand and poured them both cups.

“Did you speak to your Unspeakables?” Tom asked, taking the offered cup.

“One. Managed to track her down outside of Kent. She was fascinated by the _hypothetical_ scenario.” His beard twitched. “We brainstormed some rather promising possibilities.”

“Which are?”

Dumbledore plopped a sugar cube into his cup. “Ashes.”

 

**xXx**

 

“ _Just do it_ ,” Harry hissed under his breath.

He stood at the top of the stairs. For the last five minutes he’d been immobile, willing himself to travel down them.

 _It’ll get easier_ , he told himself. Every time he met them, spoke to them, bumped into them the pain would lessen. _Just. Do. It._

Fuck, he wished Tom was with him. One raised eyebrow would be all it would take for Harry’s legs to lurch into action, but Harry had woken alone. He couldn’t stay up here forever. Gritting his teeth, Harry slipped down the stairs. He heard the low rumble of voices in the kitchen and his courage deserted him. He fled out the front door, the brilliant sunlight hitting him straight in the face. He plowed through the prickly grass, the tips brittle and brown from the summer heat and yet the ground moist enough to squish beneath his shoes. Though he’d seen the view from his window, Harry had not realized how isolated the house was. There wasn’t another building in sight, just miles and miles of tough gorse and low scrubby trees. Not paying attention, he stepped straight into a murky pool of water.

“Oh _, man…_ ”

Grass rustled and the sleek, white body of the ninazu appeared, flicking its blue tongue. Muddy trainer forgotten, Harry stilled, not entirely sure about the ninazu. It seemed very out of character for one of Voldemort’s prized serpents to help a prisoner. Nagini never would have done such a thing, but then again, Nagini had been a Horcrux.

“Hello,” he greeted.

“There are toads here,” the snake hissed and perhaps it was thanks to a clearer head, but Harry thought the voice sounded feminine.

He grinned. “I did promise.” He squatted down. In the sunlight, the ninazu’s scales sparkled like diamonds, one of the many reasons they were so prized by snake smugglers. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

She seemed to shrug. _No bother._

“What’s your name?”

“Zola.”

“I’m Harry.”

Zola hissed an unmistakable laugh. “I know. Silly worm.” Still snickering, she pushed her nose through the grass and slipped from sight. Harry stared after her, wondering if he’d just been insulted.

“Harry!”

At the sound of his dad’s voice, Harry jumped to standing. Heart suddenly hammering, he watched his dad make his way to him. He wore a checkered jumper and knee-high wellingtons. His jeans were splattered in mud. In one hand he carried a pail. His face remained unshaven and scruffy; Harry thought the look suited him.

“Exploring?” his dad asked, setting the pail down.

Harry, realizing that he was staring, quickly replied, “Yeah,” and focused his attention on the contents in the bucket. Inside was what looked like large, wriggling grubs. “What are those?”

“Jubbers. They’re a mite. They live in the mud, feeding on grass roots. Sometimes they’ll latch onto animals and people. Can leave a nasty bite, but they aren’t poisonous.”

“And what are you doing with them?” Harry asked.

“Food.”

Harry blinked.

“You may have noticed that there isn’t a store around here,” said his dad. “We stock up on supplies about once a month and we make do in the meantime.”

Harry watched the fat, gelatinous mites squirm in the bucket.

“Don’t worry,” said his dad with a grin. “I’ve had enough practice transfiguring them to make them palatable. Want to help me grab a few more?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, brightening.

His dad picked up the pail and Harry followed him toward a particularly sludgy pool of mud. He pointed his wand at Harry’s trainers and they transformed into boots like his. He also passed him a pair of thick gloves. His dad moved into the muck.

“What you do is watch for air bubbles and when you see some” — his dad plunged both hands into the mud and struggled for a moment, as if he was trying to uproot a weed — “you grab them firmly — they’re slippery — give ’em a yank and —” With a squelchy _pop_ , his dad straightened, a wriggling Jubber clutched in his fist. He tossed it into the bucket. “You give it a go.”

Harry waded into the pool, the mud coming up to his calves, and a stream of bubbles issued by his left ankle. He dove, mud splashing. His hands closed around something squishy and surprisingly strong. Harry grunted. “Jesus. What’s it holding onto?” He put his back into it and the Jubber came free. “Do they taste good?” he asked, thinking that he’d never seen anything less appetizing.

“Not remotely.”

He turned, his heart vibrating like a plucked harp. Hair glinting in the sun, his mum stood just clear of the pool.

“But your dad’s got a knack for making them palatable. One time he even got them tasting like crab. That beef in your pie last night? It wasn’t beef.”

“Wow,” said Harry, thinking of all the trouble Hermione had gone through trying to transfigure wild mushrooms into something more satisfying. “You fooled us. It was delicious. But why can’t you go into a village for food more often?” Harry asked. “You could use the Cloak.”

“I lost that ratty old thing years ago,” said his dad, stalking for another Jubber. “It wasn’t doing me much good anyway. The magic was wearing off.”

Harry frowned. His dad’s Invisibility Cloak never ‘wore off’.

“How long have you and mum been living here?”

“Two years,” his mum answered. “It’s not that bad. An endless supply of fresh meat and the water roses that grow rampant here are a key ingredient in blood replenishing potion. But what are we doing talking about all this? Get out of that mud and give me a hug!”

Grinning and tugging off his mud-covered gloves, Harry climbed out of the pool and she wrapped her arms about him. She pulled back enough to study his face. 

“You’re so handsome,” she beamed. “Isn’t he handsome, James? Oh, look at you. Our son from another world.”

“Though we are sorry you got yanked away like that,” his dad amended.

Harry laughed. “Yeah. Not the best way to start a vacation.”

“You were on vacation?” his mum cried.

“Tom took me to Peru.” And for the first time, Harry thought of Ron and Hermione. His stomach clenched. If they found out he and Tom were missing … “We were going to be away for three weeks, but if my friends realize we’ve vanished—”

“We are going to get you home,” his mum promised.

“I bet Tom’s already got half a dozen plans in the works,” Harry agreed and the thought soothed him. He hated that Tom had been dragged into this, but Harry would be lying if he said he wasn’t grateful that Fawkes had carried them _both_ off. If he’d landed here alone he wouldn’t have the first idea how to get back.

“Speaking of _Tom_ ,” said his mum, eyes sparkling mischievously. “Things must be serious if you’re going away on vacations together.”

Harry blushed.

_So serious he asked me to marry him._

Yesterday morning already felt like a lifetime ago, but Harry could still hear Tom’s soft voice, asking him that incredible question.

“You could say that,” Harry replied. “Are you okay with … I mean, he _was_ You-Know-Who. Not that he is anymore,” he added swiftly. “He’s different now. If you get to know him—”

Mud sloshed as his dad clambered out of the pool. Frowning slightly, he asked, “Harry, are we — I mean, the other us — are they disapproving of you being with Tom?”

Harry’s mind went blank. “I — they’re—”

_Dead._

Harry cleared his throat. “They’re … you see, we’re …”

Alarm spread across their faces.

“I haven’t told them!” Harry blurted. “About us, I mean. That we’re dating.”

“Because you’re worried they won’t approve?” asked his mum.

“Well, he was, you know, killing people,” Harry said weakly.

His mum and dad shared a look.

“You should tell them, Harry,” said his mum. “You shouldn’t keep this a secret. They’ll listen.”

“And if they don’t,” said his dad, “give ’em an earful from me.”

“You’re … you’re okay with it?”

“Well,” his mum admitted, “it did startle us. Your son bringing home a Dark Lord for dinner isn’t something that you expect.”

Harry’s laugh was slightly strained. _You might be surprised_ , he thought silently, thinking of what Tom had told him about his counterpart trying to kiss him. _That_ relationship, apparently, hadn’t reached their ears yet and Harry decided to keep it that way. He felt that his parents could only handle one Dark Lord romance at a time.

 

**xXx**

 

“Ashes?” Tom repeated.

“Fawkes’ ashes, specifically.” Dumbledore extracted from an inner pocket of his robes a small corked bottle. “I gathered these from the cauldron where Lily found him.”

“And how,” Tom asked with forced calm, “are ashes supposed to help?”

“The fact that we are dealing with multiple dimensions and parallel universes means that we need a spell that can bridge the gap.” Again from his inner pocket, Dumbledore pulled out another item, a book shrunken to the size of a postage stamp. He tapped it lightly with his wand and it expanded to a monstrous size.

Tom’s eyes widened. “That’s…”

“The Incomplete Study of Dimensions,” said Dumbledore.

The last time Tom had seen it had been at Borgin and Burkes, shoved in the back of their dusty office. Tom had no idea what had come of it since.

Dumbledore pushed the book toward him. “Page five hundred and sixty eight has a particularly interesting discussion about dimensional travel. There seems to be the possibility of latching onto a direct location and time in a mirrored world, but the problem always falls to sustaining the connection. Perhaps if you imbued the properties of Fawkes’ ashes into the spell, that would be enough to send you back.”

Tom was already turning to the specified page. Eyes darting down it, his heart raced faster. _This could work._ He snapped the book shut and pocketed the bottle of ashes before a voice that sounded very much like Harry’s whispered in his head — _Tom_. 

He stiffened, taking in Dumbledore’s benign features.

“What do you want for this?”

“Nothing,” said Dumbledore. “I hope it serves you well, though, I do request that when you have finished using the book to give it back.”

Tom bit the inside of his cheek, glaring at the one man he’d feared and hated more than any other. And there the man sat, helping him.

“The Lord General is not his son,” said Tom before he lost his nerve.

“I have been suspicious of that for some time now,” Dumbledore agreed. “Forgive me for saying so, but you’ve never struck me as the paternal type.”

“No offense taken,” Tom replied. “He’s a Horcrux, as I think you already know. One of many. I could tell you where I hid the ones I made. My counterpart might have chosen different, of course. He may not have made the number I did or hid them in the same places.”

Like Harry.

So distracted by the Dark Mark on the other Harry’s arm, Tom had not paid attention to the fact that there was no lightning bolt scar on his forehead. In this world, Harry Potter was not, and had never been, a Horcrux.

“That would be very kind. Thank you,” said Dumbledore. “I’ve been looking for — gracious — longer than I want to admit. How many did you make?”

“Far too many.”

 

* * *

 

Not long later Dumbledore left and Tom felt distinctly unsettled. Didn’t people prattle on about how confession eased the soul? They were all morons. Tom didn’t feel eased. He felt called out. He felt like the child whose mess, no matter how endlessly he cleaned, was never forgotten even though Dumbledore had only smiled his benign smile, looking upon Tom with _pride_ as he spelled out his deepest secrets.

Tom didn’t want Dumbledore’s approval. It made his skin itch.

With book and ashes, he mounted the stairs. There was a door just past the room he and Harry had slept in last night. Tom inspected it. Another spare bedroom. A window was cracked open and Harry’s voice caught his notice. He peeled back the curtains. Harry and his father were knee deep in a pit of mud, wading about like idiots. Utterly perplexed, Tom watched as Harry’s mother approached them. Leaving the pool, Harry’s grin was as wide as Tom had ever seen it.

Tom jerked the curtain closed. He set the book on the dresser and found himself thinking of Granger. Had her hand healed? Was she already out in the trenches on an Order mission? And where was Weasley? Hadn’t … hadn’t Bella mentioned the Weasleys?

 _He keeps surprising me,_ she’d said, _not that I should be surprised after the Weasleys._

Flicking his wand irritably over the room, Tom made the bed shrink; the rug rolled itself up and leapt to attention in a corner. He shook off his questions and the discomfort they brought. The people of this world were of no concern. He opened the book and got to work.

 

**xXx**

 

So this was how it could have been.

That was what Harry kept thinking as he headed back into the kitchen behind his mum and dad. Harry knew he shouldn’t stare, knew that they’d find it strange, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to memorize the strides of their gaits; he wanted to remember how his mother’s hair wasn’t just red, but gold and orange and even plum; how his dad’s smile was crooked, the left side of his mouth twisting father up than the rest. He wanted to bottle their scents and bury his nose in it for the rest of his days.

If he could have Dumbledore’s Pensive, he’d never live outside of it.

His dad dumped the pail’s contents into the sink, the Jubbers squeaking like mice.

“I’m going to see what Tom’s up to,” said Harry.

He left the kitchen and mounted the stairs, popping his head into the bedroom he and Tom had spent the night in, but Tom was not there. He moved farther down the hall and found him in another room. Tom stood with his back to the door, leaning against a dresser, studying a book. The furniture, except the hip-high dresser, had been removed, the floor swept bare, and as Harry took a step inside, something crunched under his foot. He looked down and saw what was unmistakably a miniature bed.

He moved to stand behind Tom, wrapping his arms around his middle and resting his chin on his shoulder.

“I saw Dumbledore leave. Did you figure something out?”

Tom told him their theory.

“You think that might work?” Harry asked.

“Possibly. It will take time to figure out the correct coordinates. And of course, it’s only hypothetical that ashes alone will be powerful enough to ignite the spell and send us back.”

“But it’s a start?”

“It’s a start.” 

“That’s great! Can I help?”

Tom looked up from the page he was reading.

“I’m trying to decide what would be the more suitable base — the Five-Point Method or the Brazelwost Theorem. And then there’s the choice of runes.”

Harry’s enthusiasm slipped. “Runes?”

Tom smirked. “I keep telling you you should learn them.”

“How about I bring you tea instead?”

Tom laughed and Harry grinned at the sound. He hugged him tighter. If he closed his eyes they could be right back in their cottage, Tom working on some brand new potion and Harry soaking up his warmth.

As Tom flipped a page, Harry said, “I’m not saying you won’t, but if you can’t figure it out, Fawkes is still here for us.”

“That phoenix will not be full grown again for three months.”

“Yeah, but I’m just saying that we’ve got a backup plan. He’ll send us back. He’s decent.”

“ _Decent_ is not how I would describe something that swept us into another world without our consent,” Tom replied.

“Well,” Harry fumbled, “you heard Dumbledore. Fawkes is connected to us.”

“Connected to the point that he feels entitled to force us to save a world we have nothing to do with?”

“We _could_ help.”

Tom turned in his arms, glaring.

“No. We are not the universe’s heroes on call. _You_ are not the Savior of every destroyed version of our lives. We’re leaving and that’s that.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I know exactly what you’re saying and so does your mother and father and even Dumbledore. We have nothing to do with this world. We are _not_ getting involved.”

“But—”

“Have they asked for your help?” Tom demanded. “They know that you ended the war and yet have they asked for your assistance? No, they have not. Instead,” Tom went on, furiously, “they have repeatedly stated that they _do_ _not_ _want our help._ ”

“They’re just worried we’ll get hurt,” said Harry. “But if we —”

“No,” said Tom hotly. “For someone who’s always said how much he hated being dragged into a war, you seem extremely excited about jumping head first into another. Did you not experience enough death in the previous one? Now I have a great deal of work to do and I’d appreciate not worrying about whether you’re going to run off half-cocked.”

“I wasn’t saying that I’d—”

“Promise me. Promise me you’ll stay out of it.”

“But —”

“ _Harry_.”

“Fine!” Harry snapped, irritated. “I’ll stay out of it.”

Tom looked as pleased as a cat with a canary.

“Thank you. Now stand still. I need to measure you.”

“Measure me?”

“This sort of spellwork needs to be precise,” Tom explained. “Details must be exact. Don’t want your left kneecap ending up in Siberia.”

Harry laughed, but he had an inkling that Tom wasn’t kidding.

 

* * *

 

Tom missed lunch, remaining cloistered in the room upstairs, working. It wasn’t the first time that he’d skipped meals. When it came to a project, Tom was like a dog with a bone. Harry had witnessed it many times and had learned to live with it, but his parents had not.

“He does this,” Harry explained.

“It’s fine,” said his mum, but Harry didn’t miss the irritation that flashed over his dad’s face.

When dinner was ready and the table set and no sound uttered from upstairs, Harry excused himself.

“I’ll just go remind him,” he mumbled.

He mounted the stairs and turned the knob, but it was locked.

“Tom,” Harry said through the door, “dinner.”

“I’ll be down later,” came Tom’s voice.

“You’ve been working all day. Can’t you—”

The door opened a sliver and Tom’s face appeared through the crack.

“It’s at a tricky stage, I can’t leave it. Eat without me. I’ll grab something later.”

Before Harry could reply, Tom had placed a swift kiss to his lips and shut the door.

 

* * *

 

Tom did not come to bed, another breakfast came without his presence and Harry’s parents tactfully did not bring him up once. Harry, wanting to dispel the awkwardness, asked, “Do many Order members stop by?”

“Not really,” said his dad, spreading marmalade on a crumpet. “Dumbledore drops by every now and then, but it’s mostly us.”

“Sirius and Remus don’t visit?”

His dad’s hand slipped, the butter knife clattering onto his plate, and Harry knew.

“No,” said his dad in a tighter voice than before.

“They died,” said his mum quietly.

“When?” Harry whispered.

“Four years ago,” said his mum when his dad did not answer.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry.

His mum smiled faintly.

“Are they” — his dad cleared his throat, trying again — “Are they … in your world, are they …”

“Alive,” Harry lied, heart clenching at how his dad’s eyes brightened while swimming with tears. “Remus has a son.”

“A son?” his mum gasped, her hands over her mouth. “Oh!”

“His name’s Teddy,” said Harry.

His dad clutched his mum’s hand, blinking rapidly.

“He’s a little over a year old. I swear he’s put a sticking charm on his favorite toy because that stuffed hippo is _always_ with him. His laugh is _ridiculous_. He can go for hours …”

Harry spent the rest of breakfast relaying stories while his mum’s and dad’s napkins grew wet with tears.

 

* * *

 

They cleaned up breakfast and though his parents were both far more cheerful than before, relishing the news that their old friends were well and happy, Harry didn’t feel lighthearted. He didn’t want all his encounters with his parents to be tainted with lies, but the truth … would the truth do anyone any good or would it cast more doubt on Tom, making it even harder for Harry’s parents to welcome him? Because though they were trying to be open minded that their son from another world was in love with the same villain who was currently ruining their lives and countless others, Harry could feel the tense undercurrent whenever he mentioned Tom’s name.

As his dad fried Jubbers for lunch and his mum searched the pantry for pickles, Harry’s ears were trained to the upstairs. The room Tom had chosen to work in was located directly over the kitchen. The floorboards creaked whenever Tom traveled across them; Harry could picture him pacing up and down.

“I don’t think he heard me,” said Harry, excusing himself. “Be right back.”

Harry took the stairs two at a time. He grasped the handle, finding it locked once again.

“Tom, let me in.”

The lock clicked and Harry pushed it open.

“Jesus.”

There was a design on the floor that had not been there yesterday morning. Glowing lines of hot pink, icy blue, indigo and more crossed and circled and sheared. It spread like an enormous spider web across the floor, stretching from corner to corner. Glittering runes ran around the periphery. The glare of its colors hurt Harry’s eyes. Crumpled pieces of paper lay scattered all over the place and Tom stood hunched over his enormous book, scribbling.

“Lunch is ready.”

“I’ll get some later.”

“That’s what you said about breakfast and dinner and —”

“I’m _busy_ , Harry.”

“So busy you can’t stop for five minutes?”

Tom didn’t reply. He kept his back to him, pouring over his book.

“We need to talk.”

“In a minute,” said Tom, flipping pages.

“No, we’re talking now. Can I walk on it?”

“Of course you can walk on it,” Tom snapped. “Honestly, are you a wizard at all?”

Harry ignored the insult, but his jaw clenched tighter.

“You need to take a break.”

Tom finally stopped writing. His hands lay splayed on the book and Harry knew from his rigid posture and sharp tone that he was angry.

“I’m trying to get us home.”

“And I’d like you to be alive for the trip,” Harry replied. “You need to _eat_ , Tom. You need to sleep.”

“You want me to eat? Okay!” He brandished his wand and the left over crumpets from breakfast appeared. He grabbed one, took a bite and threw it back down. “Happy?”

“No,” said Harry, feeling as if he didn’t even recognize Tom anymore, “I’m not. You’re driving yourself crazy for no reason.”

“ _No reason?_ ”

“Fawkes will —”

“I am _not_ waiting for that bird to send us back!”

Harry shut the door behind him, acutely aware that his parents were directly below them.

“It’s just three months, Tom! You’re acting like we’re stuck here forever!”

“Just three months?” Tom repeated. “ _Just_ three months? Need I remind you what everyone will do and think when we don’t return from our holiday?”

“We’ll sort it out,” said Harry, though his stomach twisted uncomfortably. “We always do.”

“I’m not waiting three months,” said Tom in barely more than a whisper. “Three months is — you’ll — I’ll —”

Harry stared as Tom grew more upset. He looked deranged.

“Tom, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“I’ll lose you!” he shouted, taking Harry by surprise. “Don’t you understand? Can’t you see that? I can’t compete with them! The longer we’re here — I’ll lose you — I’ll —”

“Don’t say that,” said Harry, furious. He crossed the room, making the colored lines swirl around his ankles, took Tom’s face in his hands and kissed him. He kissed him with such force that Tom’s back hit the wall. Harry bit and sucked his lips. “You fucking idiot. Don’t you ever fucking say that.”

“Harry—”

Tom’s voice cut off as Harry unzipped his trousers and took hold of his hardening flesh, working it to full mast. They kissed again, tongues fighting for dominance, hands ripping off clothing. Tom gripped Harry by the arms and switched their positions; Harry nearly banged his nose into the wall as Tom pressed him up against it. He licked his way down Harry’s spine. Eyes shut, nails digging into the flowered wallpaper, Harry sucked in a breath as Tom’s tongue pressed inside him.

“ _Fuck._ ” He pushed back, wanting Tom to go deeper, his whole body blushing red. Tom spread his cheeks, spearing him, jabbing and licking—

Fuck. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Tom pulled away. He stood and spun Harry to face him with more force than necessary. Weak-kneed, Harry lost his balance and they crashed to the floor.

“Goddammit, Harry,” Tom cursed.

“Shut up.” Harry moved into position on top of him, stuffing two saliva-coated fingers where Tom’s tongue had been, swiftly scissoring himself open before working Tom’s cock inside. His eyes watered from the intrusion, but he snapped his hips down. Again and again. Groaning, Tom grabbed his shoulders and yanked him forward, kissing him so hard, Harry’s lips bruised.

“Yes,” Harry moaned, hiding his face in the crook of Tom’s neck as he rode him. “God, _yes_.”

The world could go up in flames this very instant and Harry wouldn’t care. He just wanted Tom — Tom’s skin, Tom’s mouth, Tom’s cock, Tom’s frantic heart matching his beat for beat.

“I love you,” he whispered against the shell of Tom’s ear. “I love you. I love you.”

Tom fucked him faster, making Harry’s voice catch with each thrust until Tom upended them once more. He sat up and, not expecting the transition, Harry lost his balance again, nearly falling over backward. Tom pulled out and before Harry could curse at him, he had taken both their erections in one long-fingered hand and began to pump them together. Harry’s eyes rolled into the back of his skull; his hands splayed out behind him on the wooden floor, keeping himself from collapsing entirely. He tried to keep Tom’s rhythm, but he was past control, his hips humping wildly, the friction of cock against cock electric.

“Harry—”

“Ah,” Harry gasped.

“Harry, I—”

 _“Ah!_ ”

With another swipe of Tom’s thumb, they both came, shooting their loads over their chests. For a moment, only their ragged breathing filled the air.

Staring at the ceiling, glasses fogged from the heat of his face, Harry panted, “Please tell me — you muffled — the room.”

Without moving from his position, Tom groped the floor for his wand. He flicked it at the door.

“It is now.”

Harry groaned. His arms gave out and he fell backward, his pelvis still resting on Tom’s thighs. He heard Tom mimic him, stretching out on his own bit of floor. Another flick from the yew and the evidence of their love-making vanished from their chests.

Harry felt that he lay on the floor of a disco, the colored lines shimmering and shifting around him.

“I think we messed some of it up.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Tom, still slightly short of breath. “They were wrong anyway.”

Harry sat up; he crawled up over him.

“You’re not going to lose me.”

Tom swallowed.

“You’re not. This might come as a shock to you, but there’s room in my heart for you _and_ them.”

Tom swallowed again, his jaw tight. Harry lowered down. Lying in the center of a web of color, he tucked himself into Tom’s side.

“And since we _are_ here,” he added quietly, “I’d like my parents to get to know my boyfriend.”

Tom released a shaky exhale. His arm came up around Harry.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Their skin began to cool and still they remained on the floor, wrapped in each other’s arms.

“I told Dumbledore about the Horcruxes,” Tom whispered.

Harry stared at him, the weight of such an admission like another presence in the room.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” Tom said after a moment, “but I will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my early drafts and plans, I included a lot more characters: Hermione and Aberforth stayed in the safe house with Harry and Tom; Sirius and Remus were alive and also paying them visits; Mad-Eye Moody was passing judgement; Neville’s mom was alive … Needless to say, I couldn’t handle all those characters crammed into the scenes. I loved the idea of Harry and Tom interacting with all these people, but I realized as I started to write the passages and stitch them together that they weren’t really adding anything all that vital. Instead, they were making things harder for no good reason. So out they went! 
> 
> I realize that when Tom first goes to Dumbledore I imply that he tells him everything about his past and yet here I am revealing that Tom kept the Horcruxes a secret. Wtf?! 
> 
> The reason for this is that I liked the idea of Tom passing over this information willingly and for no personal gain. He’s got Harry; he’s got a plan to get them home; Dumbledore doesn’t even want anything from him, and yet he chooses to hand over the keys to his other self’s destruction. Also the tone of their first encounter was very different (Tom’s desperation to get Harry back, etc). I wanted the Horcruxes to have their own moment in the spotlight and for that I needed to move them to a later place in time.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and sharing and liking and commenting and just being awesome.


	12. Four Feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If my plan holds true, this will be the last mini chapter. More notes at the end.

_On the night of Harry’s seventeenth birthday, all he wanted was for Tom to kiss him._

Which was stupid and catastrophically dangerous, but he wanted it. He’d wanted it since he was sixteen. No, it was time to be honest. Fourteen. Ever since a windswept afternoon when the Dark Lord had welcomed his son back to the Palace. Harry hadn’t even known the Dark Lord possessed a son, and from the reaction of many of the Lord’s followers, Harry wasn’t alone. He didn’t remember much of that night, too mesmerized by the sight of him.

Tom Riddle was _beautiful_.

He was abnormal. He was perfection. Sheer perfection. He embodied everything Harry failed to be.

Lessons with Tom were very different from lesson with Snape. Snape treated magic with respect and caution, but under Tom’s tutelage the only wrong was not trying at all. All topics were open, no spell, potion or subject kept from reach. Tom saw magic as something to be explored and conquered, a foreign land to be laid claim to, an unworldly animal to be dissected and then woven back together into something new. It was exhilarating and exhausting. Tom pushed Harry to his brink again and again, never satisfied, always demanding more.

But exhaustion, Harry discovered, did not stop dreams. Dreams that grew more intimate and explicit with each passing night. Dreams that made mastering Occlumency critical.

Tom was older. He was the Dark Lord’s _son_. He was deadly and unpredictable and enjoyed reminding Harry of the noose he held around his neck — around his _parents’_ necks — on a daily basis. He was forbidden and, Harry suspected, slightly insane, but that did not stop Harry’s desire. Instead, it fueled it. Harry wanted him with a desperation that made no sense. There was no rationality to it. No logic. Perhaps he was insane too. Perhaps everyone had their own brand of madness and, if that was the case, why should Harry be ashamed?

Sometimes Harry thought Tom wanted him just as much. Sometimes he caught a gleam in Tom’s eye that made Harry shiver. But a blink later the moment would vanish — a flash in a pan — and Tom would turn away, surrounded by Lady Bellatrix or Lucius Malfoy or the countless other elites that frequented the Palace, not giving Harry another glance. It was much the case tonight.

There were few days as important as a wizard turning seventeen. Unlike all of Harry’s previous birthdays, this was an overt celebration with all of the Sacred Twenty-Eight present. The Founders’ Hall was packed to the rafters with most of which Harry had never traded five words with. Yesterday, Neville’s birthday has been just the same: awkward, painfully formal, tense. Harry wondered if the Sacred Twenty-Eight were just as enthused to be his guests as he was to have them. He’d much prefer that they all left, or that _he_ could leave.

For the fiftieth time since taking his position in the corner beside the drinks table, Harry’s eyes swept upward to where Tom stood, leaning sedately against the second floor’s marble rail. Casual and relaxed, he held a glass of wine in one hand, listening to Cornelius Fudge babble. As the short man prattled on, Tom’s expression remained one of bored indifference. Harry watched them, wanting Tom to look down at him, wanting Tom’s gaze to meet his and hold it as if to say, _I know what you want_.

He didn’t.

Unhappy, Harry looked away just as Neville joined him.

“Happy birthday.”

Ever since Harry began training under Tom, a discomfort had grown between them, like a draft of winter air in a cozy room. Neville had remained under Snape’s wing.

“Thank you,” said Harry, hating the formalness in his voice. He cleared his throat, trying to eradicate it.

“I heard about the argument,” said Neville quietly.

In the corner of his eye, Harry saw Tom set his glass on the railing.

“Oh?” said Harry coolly.

“He didn’t mean it, Harry.”

Harry’s lips twisted into a grimace. “Oh, he meant it.”

As with every birthday before it, Harry’s parents had come for afternoon tea and had left at the customary hour of three o’clock. For once, Harry had not been sad to see them go. It had not been a happy visit.

_You’re no son of mine!_

“He’s just scared for you,” Neville insisted.

Harry’s words came in a rush.

“Maybe he should have thought about that before handing me over when I was an infant. He acts like people can say no to the Dark Lord. _He_ didn’t.” Harry realized he was gripping his wine glass tight enough to break it. He tried to relax. “Sorry. I know you’re mad at me too.”

“I’m not mad,” said Neville. “I’m worried. I want you to be safe, which is pretty stressful when there’s no such thing as safe.”

 They hadn’t seen each other properly in weeks, Harry cooped up with Tom, training and studying day and night while Neville went to Hogwarts where Snape’s duties of overseeing the new recruits had demanded more of his attention.

“How goes being Snape’s protégé?” Harry asked.

“Not well.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Oh, come on, Harry,” said Neville, looking far more strained than Harry had ever seen him. “You know Snape only puts up with me because the Dark Lord told him to and I’m beginning to think that even our Lord is questioning that order.”

“Don’t say that,” said Harry. “You’re an excellent dueler. Half the recruits are passing because of you.”

Neville’s smile was small. “I’d much rather be a herbologist. We went to one of the factories,” he added quietly. “It’s awful. You have no idea. A Muggle-born boy collapsed from the fumes and they didn’t do anything. He just stayed there on the ground as everyone kept working.”

“It was a potion factory?” Harry asked, his voice catching slightly. “Did you” — he cleared his throat — “see my mum?”

“No. Honestly, in all the steam and smoke, I could barely see my own hand. I spoke to one of them,” he went on, even quieter as a cluster of Weasleys drifted their way, “when Snape was with Dolohov. They live in slums — leaky roofs, no plumbing, ten to a room that’s half the size of our bed chambers. House elves live better.”

And the only reason Harry’s mum was not shivering in one of them was because of marriage to a pure-blood. Harry wondered if she passed Mrs. Malfoy or Lady Bellatrix on her way to the factory, dressed in her potion-stained robes. He wondered if they sneered at her, the Muggle-born who played at being pure-blood when the work day ended.

She of all people should understand why he was doing this, but she had looked at him so … sad.

Harry shook off the memory, finishing his glass of wine in one gulp and snatching up another. Neville watched him, just as sadly as his mum had. From across the room, Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom glanced their way. Was it Harry’s imagination, or was there tension in Mrs. Longbottom’s smile?

 “I haven’t been very good birthday company.”

“Don’t worry, Neville,” said Harry crisply. “No one is.”

“I _know_ he didn’t mean it,” Neville repeated. “I know it. He loves you, Harry.”

Harry drank his second glass just as swiftly as the first.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” Neville continued in the lowest undertone yet. He took a half step closer to Harry, eyes scanning the crowd for eavesdroppers, but no one paid them any notice, except for Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom. Harry knew what Neville was going to say and he cut him off before he could get started.

“I’m not going.”

“But Harry—”

“I’m not, Neville. I can’t.”

“But we have a plan. The wards are void now. You can get out with us.”

“Does it look like I have any intention of _getting out_?” Harry hissed under his breath.

Neville didn’t look down at Harry’s left arm where the Dark Mark hid under his sleeve. He didn’t rage at Harry like his dad had done. He let it drop and Harry wanted to say so much to him – _don’t go; I need you; be careful; for Merlin’s sake, don’t get caught; **don’t get caught**_ – but instead he set his empty glass on the table and brandished a painful smile.

“Say hello to your mum and dad for me. I’m turning in.”

Neville nodded. “See you around, Harry.”

If he stayed any longer he’d break down completely. He didn’t care that it was improper. He didn’t care that he’d most likely have to sit through a lecture tomorrow about protocol and expectations. He was sick of people. He was sick of pretending he was fine and cheerful and perfectly, wonderfully, okay.

 

**xXx**

 

With one eye trained on Harry the entire evening, Tom noticed the moment he left. The boy was upset. Tom always knew when Harry was upset.

He cut off Fudge mid-sentence, pleased to have an excuse to end this painfully dull conversation.

“My apologies, but I’m needed elsewhere.”

Moving down the stairs, he wondered where Harry had fled to. He was actually surprised the boy had lasted so long. Like Tom, Harry hated the suffocation of a party. Leaving the clustered, noisy Founders’ Hall, he eventually found him in the Basilisk Room. It wasn’t the room’s proper name. It had a far plainer label: the North Wing Sitting Parlor. But it had been what Harry had called it during their very first lesson.

“Basilisk?” Tom had repeated.

“It’s the wallpaper,” Harry had explained, pinking slightly. “It’s like Basilisk scales. Or at least, what they look like in books.”

And Tom had taken in the textured green walls and realized that Harry had a point.

“Neville and I have nicknames for all the rooms,” he’d gone on. “It’s a game we play.”

Tom entered the dimly lit room, far enough away from the Founders’ Hall that they were quite alone. Harry looked up from his spot on the couch. Immediately, he shot to standing.

“Sir, I meant no disrespect—”

“At ease, Harry. You’ll receive no punishment from me.”

The boy released a breath, his shoulders sagging. He returned to sitting.

“I noticed your father did not elect to stay.”

Emotion flashed across Harry’s face — anger, sadness, bitterness — before the shutters were pulled down. He always struggled with Occlumency around Tom, but with everyone else, he was a master.

“No,” Harry said simply.

“I heard of your disagreement.”

“Apparently everyone did.” Realizing his tone, Harry stiffened. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean—”

“You do not need to apologize for hating your father in front of me, Harry.” He sat beside him on the couch. “Show me.”

Harry unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve and pushed it up. The Dark Mark was still fresh, the skin an angry, blistered red around the black tattoo. Tom took his wrist and ghosted his fingers around the mark, being careful not to touch it. Very slightly, Harry shivered.

“Your father is a fool,” Tom told him. “You would be better off forgetting him.”

Beneath his fingers, Harry’s pulse quickened.

“Is the Dark Lord angry by what he said?” Harry asked, not meeting Tom’s eyes. “He just doesn’t understand. He’s never understood —”

“Harry,” Tom soothed, rubbing his thumb along the inside of the boy’s wrist, “our Lord has far more important dealings than the rantings of your cowardly father. You do not need them,” he said softly and this time, Harry met his gaze. “Why are you so frightened to cut the cord? They are not your family. They have never been. If they loved you — if they truly cared for you — wouldn’t they have fought for you?”

Harry swallowed.

“Come now. You are too old to be naive. It is no secret that your parents are not loyal to our Lord.”

“They _are_ loyal. They just don’t—”

“Harry, they have made their choice. What I can’t have is for you to be dragged down with them. That,” Tom said quietly, feeling Harry’s pulse speed under his thumb, “would pain me.”

Harry looked feverish, his brilliant green eyes darkening to the color of the wallpaper. One more push, that what all the boy needed. So Tom closed the short distance between them and touched lips. Harry reacted just the way Tom had known he would — like any other hormone driven seventeen year-old would — he kissed back.

Shutters down. Locks bolted. Cracks sealed. Harry was a superb Occlumens, but when it came to _this_ … the foundations shook, the truth too powerful to hide. Tom threaded his fingers through Harry’s hair, tilting his head to have better access, but Harry pulled back.

“The Dark Lord — w-won’t he be upset?”

“You have no idea,” said Tom happily. Two years he’d been saddled with Harry Potter. He may not have had any choice in the matter, but he could make his older self regret it.

Harry looked terrified. He tried to scramble away, but Tom gripped his wrist tight.

“I am perfectly capable of holding my own,” he assured him.

“I know you can,” said Harry. “It’s me I’m worried about. Your father —”

At the words, Tom burst into laughter.

“You silly thing,” he crooned, tracing a thumb along Harry’s bottom lip and kissing him again. And again. And again until there was no space left in Harry to be fearful or cautious, until there was only desire and teeth and the frantic sound of clothing on clothing and then skin on skin.

Tom grinned into their kiss, pressing Harry into the cushions.

_You foolish boy._

_You stupid, stupid child._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this story is sad. Sorry about that.
> 
> I don’t think I’m alone when I say that a big part of what draws those of us who love tomarry to it is the danger aspect. Tom is a fabulous character and a lot of what makes him fabulous is what makes him awful. He’s manipulative, controlling, arrogant, power hungry, dominating, egocentric, a liar, a killer. He is his own number one. He doesn’t give a fuck about anyone else. He is the worst person to be in a relationship with and if this was real life, all of us would be telling our bestie to get the hell out of there. But this is fantasy so we get to play. :)
> 
> I’m saying all of this because the AUs are my exploration into tomarry’s unhealthy side. BUT this will not end in tragedy, not even for the AUs! They’ll figure their shit out. 
> 
> It’ll just be … messy.


	13. NINE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today’s my birthday and I wanted to do something extra fun to celebrate, so you get a new chapter super fast! I just wanted to let you guys know how deeply appreciative I am to have you. It makes my day sharing new writing. <3
> 
> @Lilac_Sunrise, remember when you wished for Voldy to get a heart attack from all the affection Harry and Tom have for each other? Well, he doesn’t get a heart attack, but I do think you’ll enjoy what’s in this chapter.

This was wrong. This was all wrong. Tom glared at the intricate design that sprawled across the floorboards, hands on hips. Three days of work and he was nowhere close to having a way to send them home.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Harry had the _Incomplete Study of Dimensions_ open in his lap.

“I still don’t see why you need the lavender ones. Prichard says—”

“Prichard’s an idiot.”

“He _still_ says,” Harry went on relentlessly, reciting the passage before him, “that the addition of too many threads will weaken rather than strengthen and those lavender lines break if you so much as look at them funny.”

“We can’t remove them,” Tom argued. “They’re the ones that open the connection.”

“Hypothetically,” Harry reminded him, tapping the book.

The whole goddamn subject was one monstrous hypothetical. Tom had never heard of anyone successfully creating such a passageway to another world as they were attempting.

“Why don’t we just open a portal?” Harry asked, not for the first time. “We know how to do that.”

“And go where from there? The only one we know of is at Stonehenge and it, if you remember correctly, opened up to a void. I don’t even know if there was oxygen in there. And if we did decide to walk through a portal there is no way of knowing where we’ll end up.” He glared at the mess before him. “Creating a direct link to our cottage is our best chance.”

A knock on the door had them both turning. Lily stood in the doorway.

“Any progress?” she asked.

Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. “Sort of?”

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need to talk a walk.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Harry, scrambling to his feet.

“Before you go,” said Lily, stopping him, “Dumbledore just sent this for you. I think it’s a spare wand. They’re rather hard to come by. Usually orphaned wands are destroyed. But I’m sure we’ll get yours back,” she added quickly at the look on Harry’s face. “Here.” She handed him the narrow package.

“Thanks,” said Harry, taking it. He opened it and Tom, stepping up behind him, inspected it over Harry’s shoulder.

“Ash wood.”

Lily’s face fell and Harry did not miss it.

“What?” he asked at once. “What’s wrong with ash?”

“Nothing,” she said swiftly. “They’re just a little … particular. You’ll get the hang of it.”

James joined them on the landing.

“I finished packing them,” he told his wife.

“Packing what?” asked Harry.

“The blood replenishing potions are ready,” Lily explained. “We need to deliver them to the distributors.”

“And get supplies,” said James.

“We’re usually back in a few days,” said Lily.

“You’re leaving now?” said Harry, alarmed.

“Sooner we leave the sooner we’ll be back,” she replied with a smile. “Anything you want us to get?”

“A phoenix,” Tom deadpanned.

All three of them laughed.

Lily pressed a kiss to Harry’s cheek.

“Stay in the wards. We’ll be back as quick as we can.”

Harry stared after them as they descended the stairs and when the door swung open and shut, Tom said, “You still haven’t asked them, have you?”

“No,” Harry admitted, stuffing his new wand in his pocket. “It’s not something you just come out and say.” He adopted an enthusiastic voice. “So, the other me’s going around killing people. What’s up with that?”

“You were the one who said it in the Carcerem,” said Tom.

“Said what?”

“You said that it would have been smarter for me to have waited until you and Longbottom were older before killing you. Well, here’s your answer.”

“Except Vol — goddammit — _You-Know-Who_ **hasn’t** killed the other me. Why not? If you were in his shoes, why would you wait to kill me if you’d already decided it was me. Or … do you think he hasn’t?”

“Oh, I’m sure he has.”

“Then why?” Harry pressed. “Why keep me alive?”

“Honestly I have no idea. I would have killed you in a heartbeat.”

“Thanks,” said Harry dryly.

Tom lifted his hands in mock surrender. “You asked.”

“You know what really bugs me,” Harry went on. “Why is he still with them? Why hasn’t he defected? Why hasn’t he sought help from Dumbledore or his _parents_? Maybe he really is …” Harry cut off, biting his lip.

“Evil?” Tom finished lightly. “A loyal Death Eater, through and through?”

“Sometimes I get the feeling they think that,” Harry admitted quietly, referring to Lily and James. “They don’t talk about him. Ever.”

“Perhaps it’s too painful.”

 

* * *

 

“What d’you want for dinner?” Harry asked him two hours later.

“Let’s see,” said Tom, pretending to consider the options. “Jubber or Jubber? Such a difficult choice.”

“They’re actually fun to catch.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Wading through a pool of mud? No thank you.”

“It’s fun,” Harry insisted, putting the pot of Jubbers on the stove. “And a great way to relive stress.”

Tom rose from the table, leaving Prichard’s book of dimensions behind. He pressed himself against Harry, his hands resting on his waist.

“I can think of a better way to relive stress,” he replied.

Harry laughed. “God, you’re hopeless.” But he let their bodies grind together against the stove.

“We have the house all to ourselves,” Tom pointed out, kissing his neck. His hands slipped downward, squeezing Harry’s ass.

“Not before dinner, Romeo,” said Harry, but he was grinning. Tom was relieved his dip in mood earlier had not lasted. Tom knew how much it upset Harry that his double was sheared off from his family. To be frank, Tom was extremely impressed with how Harry was coping with the entire ordeal.

Harry turned back to the pot of Jubbers.

“I wonder how dad made them taste like chicken. He did some kind of … twist.”

He gave his new wand a sharp twirl and the pot shot across the kitchen, banging into the wall. Tom snorted.

“You do it, then,” Harry snapped. He’d been trying spells all day with very little reward.

Tom flicked his wand and the pot floated back to the stove.

“It’s all in the wrist,” he explained. “Repeat after me.”

But a minute later, Tom was shoving Harry aside as a Jubber as large as an elephant flattened the stove. It released an ear-splitting roar, its magnified pinchers snapping lethally. Tom brandished his wand again and the Jubber shrank back to its proper size, wriggling on the floor. Harry looked at his wand, ashen.

“Jesus. This thing hates me.”

“You just need some practice,” said Tom, repairing the stove and pot.

Harry glared at him. “That really isn’t how it works.”

 

* * *

 

After breakfast the next day, they parted ways. Harry headed out into the wide-open marsh to practice and Tom returned to the gateway upstairs. He rubbed his eyes, the glaring lines on the floor intensifying his headache. He’d hardly slept, pouring over Prichard’s blasted book, trying to find a different solution than the obvious one he needed, but one look at the thrumming, undulating lines and Tom knew it was no good. He needed jaspis. The blue stones would secure the threads into one spell, but jaspis was a highly regulated substance. The likelihood that he’d be able to acquire some was thin. He’d have to break into the Ministry for starters and that was only assuming the Unspeakables had a supply like they did in his world.

Grimacing, Tom made his decision. He glanced out the window to check that Harry was still outside and then conjured a spare bit of parchment. On it, he wrote a short note. He pointed his wand at his palm and sliced it open. He placed the folded note over the cut, watching his blood slowly seep into the paper. Closing his eyes, he recited the spell softly under his breath. On the third round, his palm grew hot and then frigid. The note vanished. He healed the cut.

“Make him stop!”

Tom looked around. Zola the ninazu slithered into the room, furious.

“He’s scaring all the toads!” she raged.

As if to reiterate her point, a loud bang like a shotgun issued from down below and a flock of petrified birds zoomed past the window. Tom quickly scanned the marsh, but Harry was fine.

His trouser pocket grew warm. While Zola grumbled around his ankles, Tom pulled out his counterpart’s response.

 

**xXx**

 

Harry knew enough about wands to not take the ash’s antagonism personal, but it was difficult.

“How’s it going?” Tom asked as they readied for bed.

Stripping down to his boxers, Harry shot Tom an annoyed scowl.

“Not well.”

“Ridiculous,” said Tom, sounding like Hermione. “I saw you blasting those stones before dinner.”

“I was trying to _levitate_ them.”

“Ah.”

“But I think one sort of hovered a bit before blowing up.” Irritable, he set the wand on the bedside table. “I never should have stopped wearing my mokeskin.”

“It wouldn’t have done you any good,” Tom countered, unbuttoning his shirt. “The Horcrux would have lifted it from you in a second.”

“Yeah,” Harry said moodily. “I suppose.”

“Why did you stop wearing it?”

“Hermione found out I was storing stuff in it. She told me I was becoming paranoid.”

Tom extinguished all the lights except the lamp on the bedside table. He removed the last of his clothes and climbed into the bed next to Harry.

“What kinds of things?”

“You know,” said Harry. “Things. Dittany. Bezoars.”

“So that’s where those bezoars went off to.”

“They were just going to go to waste in the evidence locker,” said Harry, refusing to be ashamed.

“A few bottles of blood replenishing potion wouldn’t be amiss, either.”

Harry grinned. “All ready done.”

Tom propped himself up on one elbow. “Might be helpful to know what kind of disaster you’ve got in mind. Giant attack? Spattergroit outbreak?”

“Tease all you want,” said Harry stoutly. “Bad things always happen and this vacation has only further proved my point. When we get back home, I’m never taking that pouch off.”

“I think when we get back home, we’ll need another vacation,” Tom replied. He pointed his wand at the remaining lamp and the bedroom was plunged into darkness. He settled onto his back; under the sheets, their feet slid together.

“Yeah,” said Harry, forcing out a laugh. Tom’s arm came up around his shoulders, and they fell into their usual position, Harry tucked into Tom’s side, Tom’s fingers trailing lightly over his bare skin.

“How’s the portal?”

“I think I might have had a break through.”

“What?” Harry gasped. “Really? Why didn’t you say something?”

“Don’t get too excited,” Tom warned. “I’ll know more tomorrow.”

“That’s great, Tom!”

He heard Tom’s smile in his voice. “You may not need to master that wand after all.” And then softer, “We’ll get your wand back before we leave.”

“Yeah.” But he couldn’t see how that would happen, not when it was with Voldemort. He hugged Tom tighter, his toes rubbing the underside of Tom’s heel. It was silly to be so attached to the holly. The Elder was an excellent wand. An exceptional wand. A wand any wizard would fight to the death for. 

He closed his eyes, listening to Tom’s heart beneath his ear, trying to reassure himself that everything would work out, but first he had to find his wand in a mountain of wands; the mountain grew, wands multiplying by the hundreds but they weren’t wands anymore. They were bones and it wasn’t the holly he searched for but Tom; Tom was buried deep beneath them and as Harry plunged his hands into the mass of femurs and skulls a voice that sounded just like his laughed in his ear.

 

**xXx**

 

Sunshine beaming through the windows and Harry all to himself. Tom could almost pretend that they were back on vacation.

Almost.

Voldemort’s response from yesterday had been short and swift: _Noon, Cliffs of Moher._ Needing to release his pent-up energy, Tom suggested a duel.

“With swords,” he clarified, not interested in whatever mayhem the ash might dish out.

“Sure,” said Harry, excited. “I’ve missed that.”

“We duel all the time at home,” said Tom, surprised by Harry’s reaction. They walked out into the marsh.

Harry shrugged. “Not with swords. It just takes me back. I liked those duels on the beach.”

A half-smile formed on Tom’s lips. “Always the nostalgic.”

“Like you can talk,” Harry grinned.

Tom snapped two twigs from a scrubby tree and transfigured them. He tossed one to Harry.

“Best of three?”

* * *

 

An hour later they were both winded and exultant. Harry wiped sweat from his forehead, his sword propped against one leg.

“Break for lunch?” said Tom, checking the time.

Harry nodded and they headed in. Tom filled two glasses with water and as Harry cleaned his glasses on his shirt, Tom surreptitiously removed the tiny package of powdered valerian root that he’d lifted from Lily’s potion storage that morning from his pocket. Making sure Harry wasn’t looking, he dropped a pinch into one of the cups; it instantly dissolved.

“Here you go.”

Harry put his glasses back on and took the cup.

“Thanks.”

He drank and Tom leaned against the sink, watching him, waiting.

“I wonder how much longer they’re going to be gone,” Harry mused.

“They said a few days.”

Harry took another slug of water. “Maybe we could start working on one of my mum’s potions for her?”

“People usually don’t like their work stations being fiddled with.”

“I bet she won’t mind. I want to do something to hel—”

Tom darted forward just as Harry swayed. The glass fell from his fingers and Tom caught him before he hit the ground. Eyes closed, head lolling, Harry was completely unconscious. Grunting slightly, Tom carried him across the hall into the side sitting room and deposited him onto the sofa. As he checked his pulse, Zola looked around from her patch of sunlight on the rug. Her golden eyes sharped instantly.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, alarmed, slithering across the floor. “Is he ill?”

“No. He’s sleeping,” said Tom. “Keep an eye on him.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” said Tom shortly. “I’ll be back before he wakes.” But then he stilled. Suddenly, the risks of teaching Harry Parseltongue reared their ugly heads.

“Zola, you are not to tell him that I left the house. This is a secret. Zola?”

The tip of her tail twitched. “Why?”

“Because I said so,” Tom gritted.

She looked unimpressed.

“I’m getting a surprise for Harry,” he invented instead.

“Toads?” she asked excitedly.

_Sweet Salazar._

“Just stay with him until I get back.”

For reasons Tom still did not fully understand, the ninazu climbed up onto the couch and coiled herself onto Harry’s stomach, blue tongue flicking, chin resting on his chest. He’d never known of the breed bonding to someone so quickly but Zola was clearly attached to Harry. Knowing he didn’t have much time before the valerian wore off, Tom swiftly departed, striding back out into the knee-high grass, toward the wards.

 

* * *

 

Tom Apparated to the Irish coastline and the Cliffs of Moher with five minutes to spare, but Voldemort had beaten him. Standing ten paces from the cliff’s edge stood himself. In the sunlight Lord Voldemort appeared alien, a creature best suited for the darkness. He took Tom in like a spider surveying his next fly.

“I had a feeling that when the boy dropped out of the sky with the grace of a cannon ball that he may not have come alone. Four days and now you come to me? Where have you been all this time? I have checked all our safe houses and you’ve steered clear of them. Tell me that you are not as pathetic as I think you are. Tell me that you have not sunk so low as to seek help from that Mudblood lover.”

Tom met his counterpart’s frigid gaze. “After the welcoming Harry received from you, you’re asking me that?”

Voldemort’s smile was sharper than a knife.

“How is _Harry_? Is he keeping you warm at night?”

“Very much so,” said Tom.

“Maybe not that much longer,” Voldemort breathed. 

A tick formed in Tom’s jaw.

“I was under the impression that you understood the terms of this meeting. Do you have the jaspis or don’t you?”

Voldemort smiled coldly. “I have everything, _Tom_. A king is denied nothing.”

From within his black, silk robes Voldemort pulled forth a velvet pouch. From within, he lifted out a gleaming blue stone. “Five as requested.”

“Your price?”

Voldemort’s smile turned cruel. “A memory will suffice.”

“A memory?” Tom’s eyes narrowed. “What memory?”

The sunlight glinted off the jaspis as Voldemort rolled it between his thin fingers.

“The first time you had him.”

Tom blinked. “Pardon me?”

“Was I too subtle for your delicate ears? I want the memory of the first time you fucked him.”

“Why?”

Voldemort shrugged lazily. “I’m curious. Perhaps I will gleam some sense of understanding as to why you fell so far or is his ass just that exhilarating?”

Tom felt a flush flare high in his cheeks. He whipped out his wand, transfiguring a stone by his left shoe into a goblet. With wand tip against temple, he slowly extracted the memory, placing it gently into the cup. They sent their goods floating toward each other. Tom grasped the pouch just as Voldemort took hold of the goblet. For a moment — just the barest of moments — they held each other’s gazes and it spoke of warning. The next time they met, there would be blood.

Tom turned on his heel and vanished, appearing instantly back in the marsh. He hurried past the wards and the squat house popped into existence. Securing the pouch in his pocket, he rushed back into the house, ears poised for noises, but only silence met him. When he entered the sitting room, Harry was groggily sitting up, Zola slithering off his abdomen.

“I don’t even remember dozing off,” he said. “I must be more tired than I thought.”

“Well, I did beat you,” said Tom.

“That last one was a tie and you know it,” said Harry.

The front door opened and their light banter transformed into alertness. They both jumped to attention, drawing their wands, but it was only Lily and James, back from their errands. Harry darted past Tom, hurriedly helping them carry in bags of canned food, boxes of toothpaste and potion ingredients fresh from the black market.

“No phoenixes,” James said to Tom, “but I did snag a duck.”

Tom smirked, his fingers curling around the small bag of jaspis in his pocket.

“Phoenixes are overrated.” 

 

**xXx**

 

His counterpart, a man as young as the Locket, Disapparated and Voldemort inhaled the late summer grasses of the cliffs. He was him. Not a Horcrux. Not a trick. He was _him_. The Carcerem had been real. Difficult as it was to swallow the boy’s memories, there was no denying the truth now. In another world, Lord Voldemort was _that_.

In his Palace only the Apparition Chamber was spelled to allow visitors, but he was above his followers. He could come and go anywhere within his Palace and so the grass vanished from under his feet, replaced with the thick rugs of his private wing. From a high-backed chair by the crackling fireplace, the Locket looked up.

“Well?” he asked.

“It is done,” said Voldemort.

The Locket blinked in mild surprise. “He gave it to you?”

“Of course he did. If he is desperate enough to contact me then he is desperate enough to do as I say.” Voldemort eyed the ivory, double doors of the chamber. “No one disturbs me.”

The Locket rose from his chair and exited the chamber, taking his position outside, the ever loyal servant. Voldemort set the small cup with his counterpart’s memory down on a side table and prepared the room. With a graceful sweep of his arm, the furniture soared to the edges of the chamber. The fireplace dwindled to coals and the lamps and candles extinguished in trails of smoke. The Persian rug rolled itself up, revealing the marble flooring. With sharp, precise slices, Voldemort carved the necessary runes into the floor.

For four days he had feared all would be undone. His painstakingly protected anchors to this world, uprooted and demolished, but for four days they remained safe and untouched in their secret hideaways. Why?

His short interrogation with the boy had not soothed him. Potter had fought well enough against his Legilimency that Voldemort had only gleamed fragments and shards, but he’d seen them — the diary, Salazar Slytherin’s ring, Ravenclaw’s diadem. How much did the boy know?

When that note had burned into life inside his robe pocket, Voldemort had felt that he held both his salvation and his damnation in his hand. _He_ was here. The man from Potter’s memories, his counterpart, had fallen into this world, too.

The runes completed, Voldemort took the cup and stood in the center of the pentagram. He swirled the contents, the moonlit blue memory as silver as unicorn blood. He swallowed the contents in one go.

He closed his eyes, sinking into the magic. When next he opened them it was to a sight that turned his stomach: himself, entangled with Potter. Nauseous, Voldemort turned his inspection to the room. The tiny bedroom was more than a mirror image of his childhood quarters at Wool’s Orphanage. It was it in its entirety, all the way down to the crack in the ceiling that he had spent so many hours gazing listlessly up at, but the differences stood out like sore thumbs — a Gryffindor house banner nailed over the bed, a Rememberall on the bedside table, and a balmy ocean breeze rustling the curtains through the open window. Bracing himself, Voldemort turned back to the sounds issuing behind him.

They were on the bed now, nude. The way they kissed, Voldemort imagined they relied on each other for oxygen. He quirked his head, studying himself, for the man sucking, biting, groping truly was _him_. It both repulsed and fascinated Voldemort. He’d never known he possessed that level of passion, but there it was. Voldemort knew faking and nothing in this room came close to it.

Curiously, he turned his attention to the boy. Clearly a virgin by how much he fumbled and blushed. He stepped closer to the bed and as he did, he saw hesitation appear on Potter’s face. Too absorbed in playing vampire to his neck, Voldemort was sure his counterpart missed it. He edged closer, wondering if this midnight romp would turn sour, but a second later, Riddle’s hand disappeared between the boy’s legs. Any trace of second guesses vanished as Potter’s back arched, his mouth opening in a silent gasp, legs bending and spreading, heels digging into the mattress.

Like a scientist studying lab rats, Voldemort watched them carefully, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He had no intention of viewing this debauchery more than once. Prolonged eye contact was critical for what he needed and just as he began to fear this memory was an utter waste — both of them rolling and humping like sex-crazed animals — it finally happened. Momentarily sated, they lay tangled and Potter gazed up into Riddle’s face. Seizing the opportunity, Voldemort sprang into action, dissolving into nothing and slipping into his other self’s body. Instantly, his soul recoiled. He felt everything. Every inch of Potter’s skin, flush with Riddle’s … the sweat and semen. Slowly, Potter grazed his fingers along Riddle’s collarbone before lifting — hovering — and then running his fingers through Riddle’s hair. Happiness swelled inside Riddle’s chest.

Disgusting.

Ignoring the weakling his other self had become, Voldemort turned his focus to the task at hand. Relaxed and limp, Potter was wide open. As if enchanted, those green eyes never shifted from Riddle’s. Like the thinnest of needles, Voldemort pierced Potter’s brain. He called the memories to him and they swarmed him like sheep to a shepherd. The more he witnessed, the more triumphant he grew.

Beneath Riddle, Potter shifted and Voldemort, having learned all he needed, retreated. He left Riddle’s body, reforming beside the small window. He watched as Potter’s hand left Riddle’s hair, now exploring the contours of his face, the line of his jaw, his lips. Riddle kissed Potter’s fingers. They drew together again, kissing with the tenderness of lovers.

There was no point in witnessing more. If he could set the bed aflame and burn them both into a pile of ash, he would. The bedroom fell away around him as he returned to consciousness. He vanished the runes from the floor, returned the furnishings to their proper places, reignited the lamps.

“It is done,” he said, loud enough for the Locket to hear.

The chamber door opened and closed.

“And?” the Locket asked.

“We are secure. There is nothing to fear.”

“Really?” said the Locket, dubious.

“In his world he never believed his Horcruxes were in danger. In his arrogance, they were destroyed by the person he claims is his _love_.” The word tasted foul on his tongue.

 The revulsion on the Locket’s face matched his own.

“Even if he has joined Dumbledore, even if he tells the Order of the Horcruxes, the information will be useless. I assure you, we are secure.”

“Do you still want them apprehended?” the Locket asked.

“In due time,” said Voldemort, murder thrumming through his veins. “But first, bring your charge to me. I have a job for our Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m gonna go ahead and say that Tom still remembers his first night with Harry. I don’t know the exact details of how it works if you remove a memory for viewing in a Pensieve, or as Voldy just did, using some dark magic, and don’t return it. For ease and comfort, we’ll keep it simple and Tom totally remembers that night. Maybe memories leave imprints? Anywho, hope you enjoyed the update. :)


	14. TEN

His dad was stupendous at transfiguring Jubber, but nothing beat real duck. Perhaps it was the food or having his parents safely back, but Harry felt buoyant with happiness. Even Tom was more cheerful and talkative than usual and Harry remembered that he’d mentioned a breakthrough with the portal.

Home. They might be going home soon.

Some of his brightness dimmed at the thought.

“Have you heard from Dumbledore?” Tom asked Harry’s dad and Harry looked at Tom oddly. Tom had not brought up Dumbledore’s name once in days.

“No, but that’s normal. The Order’s spread thin. He goes where there’s the most trouble.”

“Is there something you need to speak to him about?” Lily asked as she handed Harry another butterbeer.

“It’s not important,” said Tom, but Harry had an inkling he knew what was on Tom’s mind. Was Dumbledore recovering the Horcruxes, one by one, and destroying them as they tucked into dinner?

“Tom made a breakthrough with the portal,” Harry told them.

His parents looked stunned and then delighted.

“Fantastic!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, but again a heavy weight seemed to sink in his stomach.

“It’s not there yet,” said Tom, “but I am feeling more confident than I was before.”

“I’ll drink to that,” grinned his dad, lifting his butterbeer.

 

* * *

 

Dinner lasted longer than usual, but they eventually said their goodnights and turned in.

“That’s strange.”

Harry, half way stripped to his boxers, paused and looked around at Tom, who stood by the window, gazing out of it.

“What’s strange?”

“Your mother.” Tom jerked his head at the window. “I just saw her leave.”

“Leave?” Harry joined him at the window. He didn’t see her in the moon-bathed marsh. “But she just got back. Did you see my dad with her?”

“No,” said Tom.

“She shouldn’t be going off on her own like that,” said Harry, angry.

Tom’s eyebrows rose.

“Good thing Granger’s not around to hear you say that.”

“It isn’t because I don’t think she can’t take care of herself. It just isn’t safe.”

“And if that had been your father striding off into the night all alone, would your reaction be the same?” Tom asked lightly.

“Of course it would,” said Harry, though his neck grew hot.  

“She’s fully capable of taking care of herself, Harry,” said Tom, amused. “Out of everyone here, she’s the one I would worry the least about.”

 

**xXx**

 

Harry shifted uncomfortably under the yew tree. His eyes swept over Godric's Hollow’s cemetery, waiting. The clouds shifted over the full moon and a cloaked figure appeared between the tombstones. His heart pounded. His throat constricted. Even in the darkness, three yards away, he knew it was her.

“Mum.”

She jerked to a stop as he stepped out from under the tree’s branches. For a moment they held each other’s gazes and then the hood of her cloak flew back and the moonlight turned her hair violet. She darted to him, weaving through the tombstones. Out of everyone, she still trusted him.

“ _Harry._ ”

She didn’t even hesitate, wrapping her arms about him. Her smell, her touch — he was sent hurtling back to when he was six, ten, twelve. Behind her, standing by a crumbling headstone, Neville watched, blood spreading thickly down his front from the slash in his throat. Harry shut his eyes against the hallucination. When he looked again, Neville had gone.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” his mum whispered. “I’ve missed you so much. I didn’t believe the note at first. Oh, _Harry_.”

“Did you tell dad?” Harry asked and her pause told him plenty: she had not.

She took his hand in hers. “Let’s get you home.”

Harry did not move.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She looked at him in confusion and then alarm as she felt the press of his wand against her side. There was no time to utter a sound before she slumped, unconscious in his arms.

 

**xXx**

 

A sharp knocking on their door jerked Harry awake. Tom sat up, dislodging him. Night still pressed thick against the window; Harry doubted they’d been asleep for an hour. Together, they pulled on dressing gowns. Tom opened the door. Light from the hall spilled over the threshold.

His father stood on the other side, fully dressed.

“I’ve received a message,” he told them. “I have to go.”

“Go where?” Harry asked. “Is something wrong? Do you need help?”

“No,” his dad said quickly, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes. “No, I can handle this. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

He hesitated and Harry had the wild idea that his father wanted to embrace him, but he must have imagined it for his dad departed without another word, his steps quick on the stairs, the front door opening and closing.

“I do believe your father was not being entirely honest,” said Tom.

They shared a glance, and then they were down the hall and stairs, entering the foyer.

“D’you think the message was from Dumbledore?” Harry asked. “Order business?”

“Possibly.”

Brow furrowed, Tom entered the side sitting room. A chess board was set up with a half-finished tumbler of firewhisky. Tom took out his wand and trailed it through the air. As he did, a hazy, ghostly form emerged. A tiger. It opened its mouth and a female voice issued from it, void of any emotion.

“Lily Potter has dishonored the Temple of Silence,” the patronus announced. “In a token of good faith, the Silence offers an opportunity to challenge her sentence in trial by combat. You have until dawn.”

The hazy imprint vanished into threads of smoke.

“What was she talking about?” Harry asked at once.

“I don’t know,” said Tom. “I’ve never heard of the Temple of Silence. Where are you going?”

“To help,” Harry shouted over his shoulder. He ran back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Tom followed right behind him.

“Your father was clear that he didn’t want our help.”

Harry pulled on his clothes. “Sod that.”

“You do realize this could be a trap.”

“All the more reason to help,” said Harry.

“Charging into a situation that we don’t know the full picture of might cause more harm than good.”

Harry laced up his trainers.

“Your father probably contacted Dumbledore,” Tom continued and when Harry did not reply: “You can’t even use that wand properly!”

“I can blow things up,” said Harry. “In a fight, that’s all I need.” He stood. “You coming?”

“Of course I’m coming,” Tom snapped.

Harry snatched up the ash wand and left the room, returning to the foyer as Tom dressed. He paced up and down, wondering what in the world his mother could have done to cause a trial by combat. Tom’s feet sounded on the stairs and Harry charged out into the moonlight, marching across the spongy ground, heading for the edge of the wards.

Tom caught up with him. He gripped his arm and yanked him to a stop.

“Tom,” Harry began furiously, “you are not stopping me from-”

Tom whacked him sharply on the top of the head with his wand. Instantly, cold trickles spread down Harry’s body. He looked down at his hands. They were so perfectly camouflaged they were invisible.

“You’re welcome,” Tom said waspishly, doing the same for himself. Harry felt Tom’s invisible fingers close tight around his wrist and then he was twisted away. A half second later, he could see and hear again. They stood in the middle of a deep forest. Ahead, half covered in moss and ivy, stood a massive temple of stone.

Tom kept his hand clenched around Harry’s wrist.

“Are you sure about this?” he whispered.

“Yes,” said Harry firmly.

“Stay close to me.”

Together, they cautiously moved through the trees and entered the temple. It was as silent as the grave. No one was in sight. The rough stone floor was smoothed from centuries of footsteps traveling the very same path. They moved down a dark corridor toward a soft, diffused light. 

A large, cavernous room opened before them. It had no ceiling, no roof. The night sky dazzled overhead. The light did not come from candles or lanterns, but from the very floor itself, as if the stones were imbued with the sun. His dad stood with his back to them, facing an enormous, towering winged statue set in the center of the room. In its offered hands rested a simple, wooden staff. And on the other side of the statue, growing up into the wall was a colossal elder tree. Half encased in its trunk, unconscious, was his mother.

Harry didn’t even realize he’d moved until Tom’s iron-grip yanked him back.

“Welcome, James Potter,” said the same cool voice that had issued from the tiger’s mouth. A dark-skinned woman dressed in smoke-gray robes appeared. She bowed to him.

“Look,” his dad said swiftly, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but Lily would never attempt to steal the Silence. I swear to you, there’s been a mistake.”

“Her mind tells me otherwise,” the witch countered.

“Her mind was tampered with,” said his dad. “Someone must have planted a false memory—”

“She attempted to steal the Silence.”

“She _didn’t_. I know my wife. She would never touch your staff. She’s been framed.”

The witch was silent. Her eyes traveled past his dad, shifting to where Harry and Tom stood. He had the creeping feeling that she could see them. Tom squeezed his wrist and Harry knew that he suspected the same.

“Do you wish to counter her sentence?” she asked, gaze returning to his dad.

His dad’s spine straightened.

“Yes.”

The witch tucked her hands into the sleeves of her robes. “To do so, you must be deemed Worthy. Disarm and step forward.”

Disarm? How was he supposed to fight in a trial by combat without a wand?

“We have to do something,” Harry hissed.

Tom clutched his hand tighter.

“Let’s see what happens first,” he whispered. “Backup might be on the way.”

Sick with worry, Harry watched as his dad set his wand on the ground by his feet and stepped over a gleaming, golden circle cut into the stones. He walked up to the towering statue and reached for the staff. For a breath, his hand hovered over it and then his fingers closed around the wood.

Time itself seemed to freeze and then the witch said in her expressionless voice, “You are Unworthy.”

“No!” his dad shouted. “I’ll fight for her! Let me fight for her!”

“You are Unworthy,” she repeated, firmer.

“Then take me instead! I’ll take her place!”

The witch was unmoved.

With a wild look, his dad ran back to the edge of the etched circle and snatched up his wand. He ran around its curved edge, not stepping a foot back across it, sprinting around to the monstrous tree.

“ _Diffindo!_ ”

The spell had no effect. Instead, his mother sank more into the trunk, the tree’s bark creeping around her torso, sucking her in.

“No!” His dad grabbed her arm and pulled.

Harry watched, horrified.

“I’m going to help him,” Tom hissed in Harry’s ear. “ _Stay here._ ”

Tom’s hold on him vanished. A moment later he blinked into existence, his Disillusionment Charm lifting.

“Riddle!” his dad shouted, alarmed. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping you,” said Tom, but his spells were just as useless against the tree.

Dumbledore — where was Dumbledore? Harry watched as his mum’s face slowly vanished from sight. The witch’s head tilted slightly toward him, her dark eyes just like a cat’s. Harry made up his mind – he threw the ash wand to the ground and ran. The moment he crossed over the circle cut into the stone, he felt hot trickles run down his spine as Tom’s charm reversed.

“Harry!” his dad shouted, panicked, spotting him. “No!”

Harry ignored him. He reached the statue, a robed skeleton with tattered wings. In the center of the skeleton’s forehead was a triangular eye.

“Harry!” Tom roared.

He closed his hand around the staff and a gleaming blade of ghostly blue erupted at one end – a sharp, wicked, curved blade. It sang under Harry’s skin, rattling his bones.

The witch’s eyes were upon on him.

“Do you accept?” she asked.

“Harry! Harry, you don’t know what you’re doing!” His dad darted forward, but the moment he stepped onto the golden circle, he was flung backward.

“Dad!”

“Do you accept?” the witch repeated.

Harry waited until his father had clambered back to his feet. The tree had paused in cocooning his mother. Half of her face, one arm and a knee remained in view. He held his dad’s gaze. “I’ve got this. Don’t worry.” His eyes shifted to Tom, who looked furious. Harry turned back to the witch, gripping the staff tightly, and nodded.

The ground shook; Harry stumbled backward as the statue cracked. Unused to the glaive’s weight, Harry held it with both hands, watching, horrified, as a monstrous form forced its way out of the skeleton. A gargantuan foot hit the ground, the statue crumbled away and a Minotaur, as tall and broad as Hagrid, emerged, a double-bladed ax in one thick hand. 

Harry tripped over his own feet as he backed up. The creature shook its bull head, blinking slumber from its eyes. Scraping along the ground, the Minotaur lifted the ax. It snorted and, like a bull charging for the red cape, plowed toward him. For a creature its size, it moved startlingly fast. Harry dove out of the way just in time, rolling on the ground and leaping back to his feet. The glaive hummed in his hands.

Harry readied himself as the Minotaur rushed him again, swinging up its ax, aiming for his head, but Harry darted under it. He twisted, swiping the gleaming blade at its back, but one enormous fist closed around the staff and Harry was yanked off his feet. He crashed to the ground with such force air was knocked out of him.

“HARRY!”

He rolled just in time; a second later the ax embedded itself in the stone right where he’d been. He jumped to his feet as the Minotaur, with an almighty tug, pulled the ax free.

He just had to beat a Minotaur and they’d all go home. He’d done worse, hadn’t he? He’d gotten past a fifty foot dragon. He’d survived dementors. He’d survived Tom.

_You’re smaller. Use that to your advantage._

Harry gripped the glaive in his hands, waiting for the Minotaur to attack again.

The ground shook under its wide feet, but Harry stayed put, waiting — waiting —

At the very last moment, he leapt aside. The Minotaur’s torso twisted, swinging its ax just as Harry sent the glaive’s blue blade sailing at its neck — the blades connected and Harry felt a shock wave blast up his arms and into his skull. A flash of white nearly blinded him, and blinking, staggering backward, Harry stared in amazement. The Minotaur had been turned into ice.

“YES!” his dad roared.

But it wasn’t dead. Hairline cracks splintered across its beastly body. With a furious scream, the Minotaur burst free. The bull was upon him — Harry diverted the ax, but not the fist. The Minotaur’s arm swung out of nowhere and plowed into the side of his head. He was knocked clean off his feet, sprawling face first on the stones.

“Harry! Get up! _GET UP!_ ”

Blinking blood from his eyes, ears ringing, Harry tried to focus. Distantly, he felt the ground shudder beneath him. He’d lost hold of the glaive; it rested two yards away, just a wooden staff again. The blade had gone, but Harry could still hear it singing to him — or did he feel it?

“ _HARRY!_ ”

He reached out his hand and the staff shot to him as if he were magnetized. The glaive burst back into life the moment his skin made contact with the wood. He rolled onto his back and thrust the blade upward as the Minotaur leapt upon him, ax swung up for its killing blow —

The glaive sank into its chest and Harry, gritting his teeth, vision blurred with blood, drove it deeper. The bull gasped. The ax slipped from its hands and the Minotaur crashed to the ground. Shaking, Harry held onto the glaive, staring at the beast, waiting for it to clamber up again, but blood spread around its body, sinking into the glowing stones. Its black eyes stared at Harry, lifeless.

Soft steps treaded lightly to him and Harry staggered back to his feet, propping himself up with the staff, preparing himself for the next fight even as the ground tipped beneath him like the deck of a ship.

The witch stood before him, hands tucked into the sleeves of her robes. She bowed and her body faded away, dissolving into nothing.

 

**xXx**

 

The moment Dumbledore entered the Gaunt hovel, Voldemort attacked. Ropes wrapped around his ankles and wrists. With a startled cry, he toppled over, landing on the dirt-crusted floor, his wand rolling from his fingers. Voldemort stopped it with his foot, removing his Disillusionment.

“This I shall savor,” he grinned, pointing his wand at Dumbledore’s chest. “The day I cut you down.”

“Tom—”

Dumbledore’s voice was silenced with a jerk of Voldemort’s wrist.

“I thought all would be undone when they appeared, but look at how fate serves Lord Voldemort.”

Dumbledore’s eyes widened and Voldemort’s heart pumped with vindictive pleasure.

“Yes,” he breathed. “I know the boy did not come alone. I know my counterpart is here. _He_ is the reason you will die tonight. Was this the first stop you made in your Horcrux Hunt? Have you been to the cave?”

He saw the truth in Dumbledore’s eyes and laughed.

“You did! Did it not strike you as odd that there was no locket to be found? I moved it _years_ ago, ever since I heard the Prophecy. I saw the flaws in their hiding places. What if someone discovered enough of my past to piece the puzzle together? No. I wasn’t going to let sentimentality play me for a fool. I moved them. All of them. And no one, not even my counterpart, will ever guess where they are. _He_ is the reason I have been waiting here for you, knowing that you would come. Everything is falling into place. Tonight, my victory has never been more secure. It will be a shame that you will not be able to witness the coming days.” He twitched his wand and Dumbledore rose upward, the toes of his boots brushing against the ground.

Voldemort stepped close and whispered, “I will kill them all.”

 

**xXx**

 

Tom was going to _kill_ him. After he got Harry back to the safe house and healed and locked inside a protective bubble — he was going to _kill him_. What did he not comprehend about _staying put_? Half his face scarlet, Harry stumbled to them, and the moment he stepped over the golden circle that he and James could not cross, Tom snatched him up. The gash on the side of his head was dangerously deep. Tom was astounded he was still able to stand.

“Is she okay?” Harry demanded, his speech slurring. He tried to pull away from Tom, desperate to reach his mother, but Tom redoubled his grip. He placed his wand tip to the wound.

“Ow!” Harry yelped as Tom healed it with more force than necessary.

“When I say stay put,” Tom snarled, furious, “ _I mean stay put._ ”

“She’s coming round,” James cried.

At the Minotaur’s death, the elder tree had opened its trunk and Lily fell from it like a dropped petal. James had caught her before she’d hit the ground. Slowly, she blinked awake, looking about in confusion.

“James, what —”

“Are you all right?” James asked.

“Yes, I — I’m fine. I — Harry, what happened to you?” She was on her feet in seconds, taking in the state of her son. “You’re bleeding — what —”

“I’m okay,” Harry said, though he wobbled and swiftly grabbed onto Tom for support. “Tom took care of it. I — I’m fine.”

“You are _not_ fine,” said Tom hotly. “You nearly had your head knocked off.”

Harry ignored him.

“He saved you,” James told her. “He killed a Minotaur with the —”

“ _Staff of Silence,_ ” Lily breathed, noticing the weapon Harry held for the first time. “You — how did you — why are we —”

“We should get back,” Tom interrupted her, glaring about the chamber.

Wands drawn, they left the temple. With Harry clamped tight to his side, Tom Apparated them back to the marsh. Harry pushed Tom away the moment they arrived, doubling up; the staff fell from his hands as he vomited. Lily and James appeared, nearly stepping in the pool of sick.

“I don’t think — I’m — okay — after all,” Harry heaved.

“At least you’re alive,” said Tom, still shaken by what he’d witnessed.

“Let’s get you inside,” Lily urged, joining Tom in helping Harry to the house.

James picked up the fallen staff and scanned the marsh. “I don’t understand. I sent word to Dumbledore. He should have been here by now.”

“Maybe he’s inside,” said Harry.

But he wasn’t. The house was empty save for Zola who shot out from under the couch the moment they deposited Harry on it, hissing in alarm.

“What is this? Is he hurt _again_?”

“God, even the snake thinks I have a complex,” Harry groaned, lying back on the cushions.

“You have a concussion,” said Tom, tracing his wand over Harry’s temple and vanishing the blood on his face.

“Why were we in the temple?” Lily asked.

“We were saving you,” said Harry.

“What?” said Lily blankly.

“I received a message from the temple’s guardian that you’d attempted to steal the Silence,” James explained.

Lily looked scandalized.

“I didn’t do any such thing!”

“May I?” said Tom, straightening.

She stood still as he ran his wand over her. He frowned.

“What is the last thing you remember?”

“Dinner,” she said. “I remember cleaning up dinner.”

“Harry and I saw you leave the house shortly before we turned in for bed.”

“She’d gotten word from one of our suppliers,” said James. “Doxy eggs.”

Lily stared at them as if they spoke gibberish.

“I don’t remember any of this.”

“You think the message was trick?” said James, growing worried. “But what was the point? Why put her in that temple? No one attacked us.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Harry grimly.

“What is this staff?” asked Tom. “What is the Temple of Silence?”

In James’ hands it was nothing more than a Muggle weapon, the blade gone.

“It’s —” James hesitated, shooting a nervous glance at Harry. “It’s just a story.”

“Which is?” Harry pressed, sitting up.

James shared a look with Lily. They both looked deeply uncomfortable.

“That the Silence belongs to Death.”

Tom let James’ words hang in the air before stating, “What do you mean, _Death_?”

“It’s just a myth people have twisted,” said Lily. “Escalated by the fact that no one’s been able to wield the Silence for centuries. It’s just a story, Harry.”

“Out of curiosity,” Tom asked, “what is this story?”

“It’s the Tale of the Three Brothers,” said James. “From Beedle?” he added at Tom’s blank look.

“Death doesn’t have a scythe—” Harry began.

“Technically, it’s a glaive,” Tom corrected.

Irritated, Harry glared at him. “I know the Tale of the Three Brothers and there isn’t anything like _that_ ” — he pointed at the staff — “mentioned in it.”

James and Lily looked at each other puzzled.

“Are you sure you’re thinking of the right story?”

“Of course I am!” said Harry. “Three brothers meet Death at a river. They trick him and he in turn gifts them three items, knowing that he’ll get them back in the end.”

“That’s not how the story goes,” said James. “Here, look —” He moved to a shelf and extracted a small book. He thumbed through it and, finding the right passage, handed it to Harry. Looking over Harry’s shoulder, Tom read along.

“But — but —” Harry flipped the pages, baffled. “But this isn’t the story that Beedle wrote in my world.”

“What does it matter?” Tom asked, wondering why Harry was bothered by this. “That staff is clearly a magical artifact that happens to interact beneficially with your magic. There are plenty of artifacts that exhibit similar tendencies. And if I’m going to be honest, I’d rather you have it than that ash wand.”

“It’s nothing to be upset about, Harry,” Lily insisted. “It’s actually very impressive. You don’t know how many people have tried to lift the Silence from that statue.”

If anything, Harry looked grimmer.

“Yeah, I can imagine.”

“What’s troubling me is who—” But the sharp tapping of an owl’s beak against the glass broke James off. “I bet it’s from Dumbledore,” he said, hurrying to the window. “He’s not usually so—” James stared down at the note.

“What is it?” asked Lily.

“It’s —” His voice caught in his throat. “It’s Harry. He’s fleeing the Dark Lord. He — he wants sanctuary.”

 

**xXx**

 

Disillusioned, Harry stood in the shadow of a pillar, watching his double claim victory to the Silence, a weapon no one had mastered in five centuries. A weapon he himself had failed to wield two years ago. Unnerving in the extreme to watch himself battle a Minotaur, it was even more unsettling to witness his parents surround this look-a-like with worry and concern. There had been a time when they’d embraced him like that. It was like watching another life and he supposed, in all honesty, he was.

“Interesting.”

Harry cut his eyes to the left. Camouflaged as well, Tom waited until the group had departed before reverting the charm.

“Come,” he ordered.

They left the temple and returned to the Palace.

“Wait for me in the Basilisk Room.” Tom did not expect a response; he did not question that Harry would not follow orders; he did not apologize for forcing Harry to use his mother as bait. He headed off to the Dark Lord’s quarters.

Harry’s legs jerked as he walked down the opposite hall, taking a well-memorized path to the sitting room, his mind pinging like marbles shot from a party cracker. Like always, the fireplace and lamps glowed bright, everything impeccably clean.

Harry realized he was shaking.

He sat on the couch and clenched his fists together.

Calm down. Calm down. Calm—

“I thought you said you were going to protect her.”

Harry pinched his eyes shut. He gritted his teeth.

_He isn’t real. He isn’t—_

“Would you have saved her if the other you hadn’t come?” Neville asked.

“Of course I would have,” Harry snarled, glaring at the phantom of his best friend. He knew he wasn’t there. He knew he was a hallucination, but the way Neville cocked his head quizzically to one side was so _real_.

“Really?” Neville asked, more perplexed than aggressive. “How would you have done that? You already tried to use the Staff of Silence and couldn’t. You knew when you put her under the statue with a false memory of trying to steal it that you wouldn’t be able to do anything to help her. You knew that if he didn’t come or if he was just as Unworthy as you, that she would die. You knew that the moment the Dark Lord told you to do it.”

Harry was on his feet.

“ _Shut up._ ”

He couldn’t stand Neville’s soft voice. It would have been better if he raged at Harry. If he shouted and stormed. But he just stood there, quiet and patient. The longer Neville stared at him, the smaller the room became. A thin red line, like a smile, curved along Neville’s neck.

Neville, on his knees.

Neville, _dead, dead, dead._

“Who are you talking to?”

Harry jerked. Tom stood in the doorway.

“No one,” said Harry quickly. “Is the Dark Lord pleased?”

“We shall see. He has not yet returned from his journey.”

“But what do we do about the other me? He has the _Staff of Silence._ Why did we let him go?”

“The Dark Lord was specific in his orders, Harry.”

“But the stories of what it can do—”

“The Dark Lord has his reasons,” said Tom, sharply. “It is not your place to question them.”

Harry felt slapped. Two feet to Tom’s left, Neville lifted both eyebrows. _I told you._

_No,_ Harry argued. _Tom and I are —_

_Lovers?_ Neville supplied. _Friends? If you’re so happy Harry, why do you drown yourself in Euphoria?_

Too late Harry realized Tom had spoken. He dragged his attention away from Neville.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

Tom narrowed his eyes.

“I _said_ , now we know the Order is protecting our counterparts. We know they have attachments to the Potters. They will be easy to draw out again.”

“Again?”

“Yes, Harry,” Tom snapped, impatient. “The Staff of Silence makes your counterpart useful. The fact that he is loyal enough to risk his life for those blood traitors is valuable information. Now come.”

But Harry did not follow. He could not rid himself of the memory of his parents surrounding his doppelgänger. Harry had spent his life trying to make things better, but all he did was making things worse.

“Harry, _come_.”

“No.”

Tom paused at the door. “Excuse me?”

Harry’s blood was electric, his fingertips tingling.

“I’m not going back. I’m done. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” said Tom in a low, dangerous voice. “I expect you at breakfast tomorrow.” He turned to leave and Harry grabbed his wrist, speaking in a rush.

“ _We_ don’t have to do this anymore. Come with me. We can start over. We can go anywhere. _Anywhere_. You don’t have to worry about being trapped again. I found it, Tom.”

“What?”

Harry felt like he’d leapt head first off a cliff, but there was no going back now.

“I know what you are,” he whispered. “I know you’re a Horcrux and I found it. We can leave. We can stop doing all of this.”

Tom stood as rigid as a statue.

“Aren’t you tired of it?” Harry pleaded. “Please, Tom. Let’s go. Let’s just—”

Tom moved with the speed of a lightning strike. He pushed Harry up against the wall; one hand closed around his throat.

“You honestly think I’d go anywhere with you?” Tom hissed. “ _Run away with_ _you_? Do not insult me.”

“T-Tom—”

“Give me the locket!”

“I — don’t — have — it,” Harry wheezed around Tom’s fingers.

The back of Tom’s hand slammed across Harry’s face. He crashed to the ground.

“Tell me where it is! Tell me! _Crucio!_ ”

Harry had been thrown onto a fire pit. He’d been doused in hot oil.

The spell lifted and, heaving, Harry realized why. From his position on the floor, Snape towered in the sitting room’s doorway.

“Lord General.” Snape bowed, not looking once at Harry. “My apologies for intruding, but the Dark Lord has ordered your attendance. He has captured Dumbledore.”

“Has he?” Tom breathed. His hair was disheveled, the curl always so neatly tucked away springing free upon his forehead. His wand twitched in his fingers, but his voice calmed to sub-zero frigidity. “Severus, Harry and I have unfinished business. He is not to leave this room and no one is to enter it.”

“Of course, Lord General.”

Tom’s eyes locked onto Harry’s and Harry felt a terror unlike any other.

“I will be back shortly.”

He marched past Snape, the door shutting with a snap behind him and before Harry could even think of an escape plan Snape was upon him, yanking him to his feet.

“ _Move_ , boy,” Snape snarled.

Confused, Harry was pulled out of the room and dragged down a tiny side corridor. The Palace buzzed with energy, full of excited voices and hurrying feet. Snape stayed away from the main corridors, keeping to the shadows.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked. “The General —”

Snape quickened his steps, pulling him roughly along.

“Fuck the general.”

Had Tom hit him harder than he’d thought?

“What?”

“I am doing what I should have done from the very beginning,” said Snape, walking so fast Harry tripped over his own feet. “I am righting these _mistakes_.”

Harry didn’t understand what Snape meant. What mistakes? They entered the Floo Chamber and Snape shoved him into the nearest fireplace; spiraling, Harry tumbled back out into a small room, a four-wall padded cell of books. Claustrophobia hit him with a surge of nausea. The room flared red; the books … the books were bleeding —

Like a vice, Snape’s hand closed around his arm again and Harry was steered to a sagging sofa. He shut his eyes, forcing the books to return to normal, and when he looked again, they were dark brown leather. A staleness hung heavy in the air. With a stab of Snape’s wand, candles burst into sputtering life.

“Where are we?” Harry tried to stand but Snape pushed him back down. “What’s going on? What are you doing?”

“Stay,” Snape ordered. “I will be back shortly.”

He strode to the front door.

“Wait,” Harry shouted. “Where’re you going? What are you—”

“ _Stay._ ” With a snap of the door, Snape vanished into the night.

For a full minute, Harry stared at the shut door and then he felt the tremors raking through him. The right side of his face throbbed. He tasted blood in his mouth. His glasses were askew. Righting them with a shaking hand, his fingers came back sticky with blood. The tremors reached his knees. He sat back down before he collapsed.

“I told you he’d never run away with you,” said Neville, standing before him.

“Shut up, Neville,” Harry hissed.

“Harry, look at you! Look at what he does to you! And you still want to be with him?”

Harry squeezed his eyes closed and something wet leaked out from them. “Shut _up_.”

“He doesn’t love you, Harry. Can’t you see that? This isn’t love.”

Harry had to get out of here. He had to … to … Harry didn’t know anymore. He was scared to go back to the Palace. He was scared to go to Riddle House. It was over. His great plans of getting everything he wanted … Tom, his parents, a normal life … they’d been lies. Nothing but lies.

Run. Maybe he’d last a week, a month, a year. He sprinted to the door. It was locked.

_“Alohomora!_ ”

It remained sealed.

He slashed at the door. He set it on fire. Nothing worked. It remained locked and bolted.

But no, blood seeped from under the door frame. Gasping, Harry jumped backward, his boots sticking and slipping. Blood welled up through the floorboards, saturating the gray rug. It kept rising. Heart in throat, Harry leapt onto the coffee table and the blood rose up, up, up—

“Stop!” Harry screamed. “STOP!”

“Potter! _Potter!_ ”

The sea of blood vanished. Snape was back, gripping him by both arms, hard enough to bruise.

“Get down from there, you idiot. We’re leaving.”

Harry had no voice. The bloody sea had carried it away. Snape pulled him off the table and dragged him out into the night.

 

**xXx**

 

Spinner’s End had not improved over the years. The street’s grimness had spread throughout the Muggle town, aided by the dementors feasting upon the slump-shouldered residents. Severus made a point to not visit his childhood home, but out of all the places where the Dark Lord or his servants might choose to look for him, this derelict cesspool would be the last.

He cut a quick glance at Potter as they walked briskly down Daphne Street, heading for the river that cut through a scrubby patch of wood. The boy was sweating, pale and twitchy. Half-crazed, he kept looking over his shoulder, as if he thought someone was following them.

Soon, there would be. Soon, they would be the most wanted men in the world now that Dumbledore was dead.

“Here.” Never once releasing his grip on Potter, he urged him down a slope of slick grass. He lit his wand, better to see their footing. Beer cans and used condoms, crumpled crisp bags and water-stained magazines … Severus scanned the bank, but there were no Muggles hiding in the grass tonight.

“Where are we going?” Potter demanded. Though the night was balmy, his teeth chattered.

In reply, Severus yanked him down the bank to the sludgy river. His wandlight passed over a pair of people standing by the river’s edge. They were not Muggles.

Potter dug in his heels.

Furious, Severus snarled, “ _Boy—_ ”

Potter shook his head. He looked mad, his eyes fixed upon his parents. “No. No, take me back.”

“Harry.”

At the sound of her voice, Severus’ heart turned over.

“Harry, please,” Lily implored, stepping closer, “we can help you. Please.”

Potter mouthed soundlessly, shaking his head, shaking all over. Before he could wrench his arm free and Disapparate, Severus’ spell hit him square in the chest.

“ _Stupefy!_ ”

Potter fell into Severus’ arms just as Lily and James rushed to them. It was painful to look at her, so he looked at James instead.

“I got him out without anyone knowing, but the General will find out very soon. You need to leave the country. Get out of England. Get as far away as you can. Dumbledore’s been captured by the Dark Lord.”

“ _What?_ ”

“He will be dead within the hour,” Severus stated. He finally met Lily’s horrified eyes. “There is no fighting the Dark Lord. Save yourself. Save your family.”

“Lily,” James whispered.

“Take Harry,” she said swiftly. “I’ll be right behind you.”

James took a secure grip on his son and vanished with a crack. Lily turned to Severus. Though there were tear tracks on her face, her expression was set.

“We have a safe house. It is secure even with” — she paused, in pain — “even with Dumbledore gone.”

“Nowhere is safe, Lily,” Severus argued.

“And the same is true for you,” she countered fiercely. “You helped my son. Now let me help you.” She held out her hand.

Severus’ heart clenched. “You trust me?”

Tears fell from her eyes. “Yes, Sev.”

He took hold of her hand and she twisted them away from the murky river and instead, to a field, soggy under his feet. A small house sat squatly before them, lights on, and James was shouting in the doorway.

“Lily! Something’s wrong with Harry!”

They sprinted to the house. James moved aside, ushering them to a side room where Potter, still unconscious, shuddered violently on a couch. Behind the couch, two others stood: the other Potter the Dark Lord had spoken of and …

Severus stared in amazement. The Lord General. There was another Riddle.

The counterparts stared at Severus, just as taken aback, but then Potter began to choke.

“Get him on his side!” Severus ordered.

“What’s the matter with him?” James asked, frantic.

“He’s suffering from Euphoria withdrawal.”

“ _What?_ ” James sputtered.

Lily covered her mouth.

“What’s Euphoria?” the other Potter asked.

“This is not something that you should see,” Severus continued, speaking more to Lily than anyone else. “I will make sure he makes it through the night. Do you have a spare room?”

Swiftly, they levitated him up a flight of stairs and placed him on a bed in a room at the end of a hall. Severus stripped Potter of his shoes and outer cloak. He was fighting the stunner. It wouldn’t be long before he woke and when he did…

“No matter what you hear, do not enter this room,” said Severus. “I will take care of him. I promise you.”

_Please_ , he urged. _Let me make this right._

Lily swallowed and took one last pained look at her son.

“If you need anything,” she whispered.

“I will ask,” said Severus. “He will make it. I swear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the hardest chapter I’ve ever written to date. Back when I was planning the story, this chapter gave me the worst time. I’d think I’d have it only to wake up the next morning and realize that nope, that won’t work either. I’m very pleased with it now. 
> 
> For those of you who are familiar with Sailor Moon, you’ve probably noticed that my Staff of Silence is very much like Sailor Saturn’s Silence Glaive. And the truth is – you’re right. My Silence is heavily inspired by Saturn’s. I considered renaming my staff, but I really liked Silence and I was quite attached to the glaive blade. (I did toy with writing it as a traditional scythe, but a scythe just doesn’t work for the fight scenes I’ve got in mind.) Needless to say, no copyright infringement in intended and there will not be any Sailor Senshi popping into this story. It’s just a really awesome fighting stick.


	15. ELEVEN

“What’s Euphoria?” Harry asked the moment Snape — God, _Snape_ — shut the bedroom door.

“A potion,” said his mum. She was angrier than Harry had ever seen her.

It seemed to take everything his parents had to turn away from the door.

“Come on,” said his dad quietly, wrapping an arm around her waist.

In the kitchen, they sat at the table and his dad got a kettle heating. Outside, the night sky lightened, dawn approaching. 

“Euphoria was created a year after the Dark Lord’s victory,” his dad explained. “It causes the drinker to have instant relief. Euphoria sweeps troubles away. It became a mandatory beverage for the Muggle-borns who work in the factories and uprisings ceased practically overnight. Since then, it’s gained popularity in certain Pure-blood circles as a recreational drug. It can be extremely addictive.”

“How toxic is it?” Tom asked.

“When taken excessively, exceedingly,” said his mum darkly. “I used to work in one of the potion factories. It’s vile.”

“He’ll be okay, Lily,” said his dad, reassuring. “He’s here. He’s safe. He’s going to be okay.”

She nodded tightly and his dad met Harry’s and Tom’s eyes.

“Dumbledore’s dead,” he said heavily.

Harry’s stomach vanished.

“When?” Tom whispered.

“While Snape was getting Harry to us. He told us the Dark Lord had captured him.”

Underneath the table, Tom’s hand closed around his. Harry felt like the world was closing in around him. Like he had tumbled straight back into a nightmare. Harry squeezed Tom’s hand back. He cleared his throat.

“There’s something Tom and I need to tell you,” he said quietly.

 

* * *

 

“Seven?” his mum repeated, stunned, looking from Harry to Tom.

“That was my goal,” Tom admitted. “It is reasonable to assume my alter self felt similar.”

“And you told Dumbledore?” Harry’s dad asked.

Tom nodded. “It might have been the cause for his capture. If you choose to go in search of them, I recommend not going alone. My protections are vicious.”

“Thank you for telling us,” said his mum, though she looked ill.

“We can help you find—” Harry began, but he was cut off with a sharp, “ _No._ ”

“But who’s better equipped than Tom and I?” Harry argued.

“No,” his dad repeated firmly. “We’re grateful that you told us, but that is all that we —”

“FUCK YOU!”

Harry jumped at the bellowing shout. Zola hissed, agitated, beneath the table. Everyone looked upward at the ceiling. His counterpart had woken. Bangs, like a bed jostling against a wall, thumped overhead.

“I’ll kill you!” Harry heard his own voice scream. “I’LL KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING—”

Silence fell abruptly and Harry suspected Snape had muffled the room.

“I think we should try to get some rest,” said his mum in a thinner voice than usual. “It’s been a very long night.”

But Harry didn’t want to turn in. He wanted to _help_. Why was everyone treating him like a child?

“Harry,” Tom urged quietly, squeezing his hand tighter. _Let it go._

Grimacing, Harry swallowed his arguments and let Tom lead him from the kitchen, Zola slithering after them.

“I’m not going to bed,” he stated in the foyer.

“I wasn’t expecting you to,” Tom replied. “I’m going to work on the portal. Want to join me?”

“I’m no help,” said Harry moodily. “I’ll just get in the way.”

“You’re never in my way.”

Harry tried to smile, but his muscles wouldn’t do it. Tom kissed the top of his head.

“Stay with him,” he told Zola.

In reply she climbed up Harry’s leg, wrapping her body snuggly around his calf.

“Zola, he didn’t mean—”

“Yes, I did,” said Tom as he headed up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

The cottage could have been empty for how still it grew. Harry moved into the sitting room, walking awkwardly with Zola twined around his leg. He sat on the couch, staring at his shoes, watching the carpet grow lighter as the sun rose and Zola, sensing his distress, rested her head on his knee. His insides felt like they’d been twisted into a bloody knot.

Dumbledore, Sirius, Lupin … was there such thing as a world where everyone lived?

His eyes shifted to the staff. When his dad had brought his doppelgänger into the house, Harry had quickly moved it out of the way, leaning it against a wall. As the sunlight turned the staff’s dark grain to amber, the hairs on his neck rose without warning, as if someone had ghosted their breath along his skin.

Shivering, Harry stood. Zola unwound herself, but watched him, the ever alert shadow. He retrieved the staff and instantly, it came alive, the blade so bright it burned his eyes. Glaring at it, he wished it wasn’t so cumbersome. If this was another Hallow, it was by far the worst at anonymity. He wished he didn’t have to lug it around like some damn knight’s walking stick.

As if a genie resided in the room, the Silence vanished and Harry yelped as his hand burned.

“What is it now?” Zola cried, alarmed and exasperatedly.

“Nothing,” said Harry quickly. He stuffed his hand inside his pocket.

“You are lying,” said Zola testily. “All you worms do is lie!”

“Who’s lied to you?”

She wriggled her body in an irritable shrug.

“Zola—”

“He promised us toads!” she stormed, hurt and upset. “And he did not bring us any!”

“What are you talking about?” said Harry, astounded by the ninazu’s appetite. “There are toads everywhere.”

“Not special toads,” she grumbled, petulant. “Tom said they would be special.”

Harry laughed, marveling that he still could.

“I’m going for a walk,” he told her. “Coming?”

 

* * *

 

It was cold on the marsh. Zola’s pale scales shimmered as the morning rays glanced off them. She sped through the tall grass, leading the way to one of her favorite hunting pools, located behind a low garden wall. Harry sat, half watching the snake explore the muddy ground, half distracted by the heaviness in his gut. The lightness had come and gone as swiftly as his laugh. Frightened by what he’d find, he pulled his right hand out of his pocket. On the palm, etched in lines so fine they could have been hairs was the mark of the Deathly Hallows. He _felt_ the Silence. He heard its song vibrate inside his marrow. The Silence was … _inside_ him … it _was_ him. Harry knew, intrinsically, that to bring the staff back into the open, he only need wish for it.

Harry opened his hand and as if it was an extension of his mind, the Silence appeared, the staff firm and heavy, the blade glistening like ocean water trapped in crystal. His entire body hummed like a chimed bell. He wondered what the Silence could do. As fleeting as it had been, he’d still turned that Minotaur into ice. Focusing, he touched the blade’s tip against the ground. A clump of grass crystallized, freezing solid. Harry’s heart leapt. This was _easy_. As easy as flying. What other things could he do?

Fingers ran down the back of his neck and Harry jerked in alarm. He jumped to his feet, twisting around, but he was alone.

“Harry?”

Jumping again, Harry whirled around. “Tom! I — I didn’t hear you.”

Tom eyed the staff in his hand. “Practicing?”

“Sort of.”

Tom sat on the wall, and Harry did the same, refusing to look over his shoulder. He propped the Silence against the wall. Without his skin making contact, the blade vanished. The moment it did, Harry was hit with a powerful desire to snatch it back up.

“How’s the portal?” Harry asked, shaking off the strange urge.

“Still not there yet,” Tom sighed. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

Tom looked at him flatly.

Harry hesitated and then showed Tom his palm. Tom looked at it quizzically.

“Don’t you see it?” Harry asked.

“See what?”

“The mark. The mark of the Deathly Hallows.”

Tom straightened. He took Harry’s hand in his, inspecting the palm.

“When did this happen?”

“Just now.”

“What does the mark mean?” Tom asked. “Why were you upset that the stories did not match?”

“It’s nothing. It’s stupid. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Clearly it _does_ mean something,” Tom replied. “Tell me.”

Harry released a heavy breath.

“In our world the Deathly Hallows are three items that when combined make you … Master of Death.”

Tom blinked.

“Master of Death?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Harry insisted, now sounding a great deal like his mum. “It’s not like I’m immortal. I nearly die three times a week,” he added in a weak attempt at humor.

“Back home, what are these Hallows?”

Harry wished he hadn’t brought this up.

“My Invisibility Cloak, a river stone and--”

“The Elder Wand,” Tom breathed. “ _That’s_ how you survived. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d make a big deal out of it. And the reason I survived was because you took my blood when you resurrected yourself.”

“You called yourself _Master of Death_.”

“It’s just a stupid title,” said Harry, refusing to believe otherwise, even as the Silence sang in his bones. “You master them because you _embrace_ death. It’s nothing special.”

“Nothing special?” Tom echoed. “ _Nothing special?_ ”

He lifted Harry’s hand to his mouth and kissed the palm, right over the mark he could not see. Harry’s heart skipped as Tom moved his lips to his pulse point. Kissing his neck, he whispered, “No one is more special than you.”

Harry smiled, blushing. How he wanted to lean into Tom and be swept away by blissful oblivion, but he didn’t. He pulled away.

“There’s something else. Promise you won’t freak.”

Tom was insulted. “I don’t _freak_.”

“Good, because I am,” Harry replied.

He slipped his hand from Tom’s and retrieved the Silence from the wall. He took another deep breath, steeling himself, and the Silence vanished.

“Where did you send it?” Tom asked.

“That’s the thing. I don’t think it’s gone anywhere. I think it’s … _in_ me.”

“ _In_ you?”

“I think it has something to do with this mark. I think it’s part of me. An extension of me. I feel it right here.” He pressed his hand on his chest, over his heart. “That’s not good, is it?”

“Not necessarily,” said Tom. “Did the other Hallows behave this way?”

“No. You know the Elder Wand and you’ve seen my dad’s Invisibility Cloak. They’re physical items that _stay_ physical.”

“Are you in pain?”

“It doesn’t hurt. It’s more like a warmth.”

Tom rested his hand over Harry’s heart.

“Do you think I should be worried?” Harry asked.

“If it isn’t causing you harm, I don’t see why, but it’s something we should keep an eye on.” He took Harry’s hand again and pulled him to his feet. “Come on. We’re both exhausted. A few hours of sleep will do wonders.”

 

**xXx**

 

_Neville on his knees. Neville and his parents captured._

The Dark Lord stood on his raised pedestal in the Founders’ Hall, looking down at the Longbottoms. Tom, the executioner, paced before them. Bound in place, Neville sought Harry out in the circle of Death Eaters.

“Since you wish to become Muggles so very badly,” said Tom, walking leisurely up and down, “then it is fitting that you die as such.”

He held out his hand and Lady Bellatrix marched out of the circle, placing three wands on his palm. He snapped them and Harry flinched at the sound. Beside him, Snape shot him an angry glare. Tom transfigured one of the snapped pieces into a knife.

“I believe our newest member should have the pleasure.” He turned and looked directly at Harry.

Every eye was upon him as he lurched forward. As Bellatrix passed him, returning to her place in the circle, she bestowed him an encouraging smile.

“Harry,” Neville whispered. “Harry—”

“Do it,” said Tom, holding out the knife. “Execute these traitors.”

“Harry, please—”

From his raised platform, Voldemort’s eyes burned into the back of his skull — _Do you intend to fail me, Harry?_

His father, furious at the Dark Mark on his arm — _You’re no son of mine!_

Tom, running his fingers through his hair while they lay in bed — _I know you won’t disappoint me._

“Do it,” Tom repeated, his steel eyes boring into Harry’s.

_Or else._

Harry took the knife.

 

* * *

 

The smells were all wrong. The bed was wrong. The angle of the sun hitting his face, wrong, wrong, wrong. Harry pried his eyes open. They felt like they’d been packed with sand. He could have been on the ocean. A blue so lagoon surrounded him that for a moment he thought it was true: he’d fled; he’d run away to some tropical beach. His demons would never find him here. They’d be scorched in the sunlight.

He blinked and features grew more detailed. Thin, yellow curtains were drawn back from a window. The lagoon was nothing more than paint, brightening the walls. He lay flat on his back on a bed, his ankles and wrists strapped to its frame.

Was this a new game of Tom’s? He glanced to the left and saw the dark figure and sallow-skin of the blurred man sitting in the chair by the bed and everything — _everything_ — rushed back.

“Awake, I see,” Snape observed.

Harry’s throat was too dry to speak.

Snape rose. He picked up a glass, tucked one hand behind Harry’s head and tipped cool water down his throat. Harry coughed, swallowing with difficulty. Seemingly satisfied, Snape returned to his chair, and for a long time, Harry stared up at the ceiling. He was not wearing his glasses, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need to see anything. Perhaps if he stayed here long enough, immobile on this bed, the world would forget about him and let him slip away.

“How many times has he struck you?” Snape asked.

Harry closed his eyes.

“ _How many_ —”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry croaked in reply.

“You expect your lover to beat you?”

Surprised, Harry looked at Snape.

“Do you think I’m a simpleton? I saw the pair of you on your Coming of Age Celebration.”

Blood flooded Harry’s face.

“How often does he strike you?” he demanded again.

When Harry did not answer Snape asked instead, “Was he the one who got you on Euphoria?”

A lump formed in Harry’s throat. He kept his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, wishing Snape would leave.

“Did he?” Snape pressed, relentless. Even though Snape was too blurred to make out, Harry heard the anger in his voice. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

“ _Go_ to you?” Harry said incredulous. “Since when have you ever cared about what happens to me?”

“I have never cared about you,” Snape said harshly.

“Good! Keep doing that and leave me alone!”

“No.” Snape rose and pointed his wand at the bed. The binds keeping Harry in place vanished. “I told you, Potter. No more mistakes. I am going to get you some food and you will eat all of it.” He left, shutting and locking the door.

Harry sat up, his very bones aching. Though the straps had been padded, bruises colored his wrists and ankles. He remembered fighting. He remembered shouting. He remembered …

_Please, I’ll do anything you want. Anything! Just give me one more. Just one more!_

Stomach turning, he remembered offering up his body, and when that didn’t work, screaming filth at Snape’s face. No wonder he’d been tied down. He touched the side of his face, expecting to feel the welt Tom had left, but it wasn’t there. Snape had healed him.

So this was rock bottom. He slipped on his glasses and looked around the room, taking in the sight. Peaceful blue walls, soft curtains, not so bad for a man in hell. Grimacing, Harry stood and almost toppled over. Grasping a bedpost, he lurched to the window seat and when he reached it, collapsing against the glass, Harry felt that he’d conquered a massive feat. The glass was cool against his burning forehead. The ever present urge for Euphoria was itching into life, but if he just sat here for a moment, just sat, maybe it would go away.

Sounds outside the window drew his attention. For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating, and then he came to his senses. This house … his parents … the black-haired figure walking through the mist-covered grass was his counterpart. Harry watched him sit on a low garden wall. He watched as the Silence appeared out of nowhere, his double turning it over in his hands, studying it, testing it.

The Dark Lord had wanted Harry to have it, but Harry had been Unworthy.

A new figure left the house, striding through the tall grass. Harry’s heart quickened. Tom’s counterpart reached the wall; he sat next to the other Harry, sitting hip to hip. This other Tom took the double’s hand in his. He kissed it. Kissed up his arm. Kissed his neck. His double smiled, sinking into him.

Harry realized how heavy he leaned against the glass with fingers splayed, as if he was trying to push through it and join them and suck up their happiness like a dementor swallowing its next meal.

The bedroom door creaked open and Harry did not bother turning, knowing it would be Snape.

“Harry?”

His head shot around, his heart beating a violent tattoo.

Snape was nowhere in sight. It was his mum who stood in the doorway, holding a breakfast tray. His dad was beside her, one arm around her waist.

“Hungry?” she asked.

The sight of the tray turned his stomach.

“It’s the Euphoria,” said his mum, noticing his grimace. “James—”

But his dad had already poured a cup of tea and held it out to him.

“Ginger,” he explained. “It helps. I used to make it for your mother.”

Because all the Muggle-borns were served a weekly dose of Euphoria to keep them quiet. To keep them calm. To keep them under heel.

Harry took it, his throat tight. He could not look them in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring into his cup. He’d thought everything had gone wrong, but the truth was, nothing had ever been right.

The food tray rattled as his mum set it on the bed and they both embraced him, arms encasing him. He screwed up his face against the hurt in his chest.

“It’s okay,” said his dad, rubbing his back, one cheek pressed against the top of Harry’s head. “It’s okay, Harry. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Harry choked, the shame and sorrow like knives in his heart. How could they say that? How could they look at him, hold him, after all that he’d done? It would never be okay.

 

**xXx**

 

In the kitchen, Severus drank a cup of tea without noticing its flavor. His mouth felt that it was made of sandpaper. What was he still doing in this house? There was no reason to linger. Was he expecting a farewell hug?

At the thought his cheeks reddened. Furious, he pushed to his feet. He’d already wasted enough time here. The Dark Lord and General would know he’d assisted in Potter’s escape. There was no time to dawdle. He turned to leave the kitchen, but jerked to a stop. James stood before him, blocking his way.

“Potter,” said Severus crisply.

“I thought I’d never get him back. We’re indebted to you.”

“I don’t want your debt,” Severus replied, anger mounting by the second.

“You still have it,” said James. “Lily and I are happy for you to stay as long as you want.”

“That,” said Severus through gritted teeth, “will not be necessary.”

James looked as if he expected as much.

“At least let me share some contacts. There’s a woman — Arabella Fig. She’s the best as getting people out of the country.”

“You think I’m going to run?” Severus snarled.

“No. I thought that if you wanted to help more people like Harry get away from the Dark Lord it would be useful to know the escape route.”

“You want me to join the Order?”

For Lily to trust him again … but James Potter?

“You’re a powerful, deadly wizard who’s unflappable under pressure,” James stated. “We’d love to have you.”

 

**xXx**

 

Harry stood inside a crystal, his reflection captured at every possible angle — upside down, sideways, perpendicular. Stretching on beyond him, around him, was emptiness. Blackness. A great void.

But wait…

Harry frowned, noticing a figure reflected in one of the panels. He turned, expecting to see the stranger behind him, but he only met his own face. Puzzled, he turned back around. The figure, small and still, remained and as Harry stared at it, he noticed his reflection was not looking back at him. In fact, the crystal had vanished.

He knew with a certainty that he could not explain that the figure meant no harm and so he walked toward it. His feet made no sound on the ground, if it was ground at all that he strode upon. How very strange this place was.

“It is Nothingness,” the figure explained, as if he’d asked aloud where he was. She removed the hood of her gray robes. It was the dark-skinned witch of the temple. Her warm brown eyes gleamed.

“How did I get here?” Harry asked.

“In sleep the mind is more flexible. With practice, you shall be able to enter this realm by will whenever you choose.”

“Why would I want to?” Harry asked, not seeing much to find appealing. The endless void made his stomach swoop with vertigo, as if he was adrift in space. The witch’s form helped ground him, so he focused upon her.

She did not reply and in her silence, Harry grew unsettled. The name — Nothingness — rang in his memory. He’d been here before, tumbling through a stained glass window into a darkness so impenetrable he hadn’t been able to see his own fingers. Why was he back here?

“Tell me about the staff,” said Harry. “You were protecting it, weren’t you?”

“The Silence requires no guardian,” the witch stated, “while it has its master.”

Like a needle jabbed in Harry’s side, irritation flared.

“I don’t want to be its master. You can have it back.”

He opened his hand and the glaive appeared, the blue blade slicing through the darkness like a lantern.

The witch smiled as if he’d uttered a joke.

“Look,” said Harry, growing angry, “ _I don’t want it._ ” The staff grew hot under his fingers. The glaive burned brighter and a surge of energy, like a shock wave, shot forward. The witch vanished and Harry spun on the spot, but she was nowhere in sight. Panic gripped him. He needed more light and the Silence, in reply, glowed even brighter. Its light fell upon something else; a crouched creature, stunted and bone white with hollow, empty socket for eyes.

The Leech lurched at Harry, its far-too long arms reaching for him, its spindle fingers grasping, its gaping mouth sucking in a rasping breath —

“ _Harry, wake up!_ ”

He jerked awake with a gasp. He was in bed. Tom, worry all over his face, stared down at him.

“You were having a nightmare.”

Harry sat up. Shaking, his eyes shot about the room, half expecting the Leech to leap out at him from behind the dresser.

“It wasn’t a nightmare. I — I traveled into another dimension.”

“Harry, you were dreaming.”

“No! It wasn’t a dream!”

Tom took him by both shoulders.

“If you were in another dimension, you wouldn’t have been able to kick me. It was a dream. Just a dream.”

Harry swallowed. The more he looked about the room, diffused by the sunlight behind the curtains with the birds singing cheerfully outside the window, his heart rate calmed. He exhaled.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“Did I kick you hard?”

“I might get a bruise.”

Harry winced. “Sorry.”

Smiling, Tom pulled him back down, spooning against him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly.

Harry shook his head.

Tom hugged closer, arms wrapping around Harry’s middle, his nose nuzzling the back of his neck. “If you change your mind, I’m all ears.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did y’all think I’d forgotten about the Leech? I sure didn’t.
> 
> Nothingness has always been inspired by Stranger Things. I’m a big fan of the show and that black, reflective in-between place that Eleven goes to to spy on people has always creeped the hell out of me. 
> 
> For those of you who are curious, the incident in the previous chapter was the first time Tom’s struck Harry. They have not had a physically abusive relationship until that outburst. Harry doesn’t answer Snape’s questions because he doesn’t want to talk about it. 
> 
> Also, I have received such beautiful comments recently and many are from readers who have just now discovered Of Your Making. I wanted to say thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your feedback means so much to me. <3


	16. TWELVE

For the first time, Harry understood how Ron had always felt and he didn’t like it. With his counterpart in the house, Harry’s interactions with his parents were short and fleeting. Everything was suddenly all about _Harry_. Harry’s ginger tea. Harry’s recuperation. Harry’s comfort. Harry began to hate his own name, the sound of it triggering a knee-jerk flare of anger in the pit of his stomach.

Hadn’t he _wanted_ his double to rejoin his family, the fact they’d been separated horrific to him a mere week ago? His mum and dad looked five years younger, full of smiles and laughter. The house literally and figuratively brimmed with sunlight, but Harry felt as cold as winter.

If this had happened to Hermione, she would have leapt at the opportunity to learn everything about her counterpart. She would have planted herself beside her doppelgänger and pelted her with questions, but Harry kept a firm distance. He did not venture into his double’s bedroom and luckily, the other Harry was still too ill to move about the house freely.

Being around Snape didn’t help matters either. Harry kept feeling an urge to speak to him. To say the things that he’d never gotten the chance to say, but even when he nearly mustered up the courage, the words turned stupid in his head. It was a relief when Snape departed.

“Lily’s gone with him,” his dad explained at breakfast, four days after Snape and the other Harry arrived. He was crushing fresh ginger for another batch of tea. Harry wondered how much longer the Euphoria withdrawal would keep his double bedridden. “I don’t expect her until late tonight. Maybe even tomorrow morning if the rest of the Order puts up a fight.”

Without Dumbledore Harry could imagine how difficult it would be to convince the remaining Order members to trust Snape.

“You let her go alone?” said Harry, unable to refrain from sounding accusatory.

“She’s with Snape. That’s hardly alone,” his dad corrected. “But I’ll let her know you didn’t approve,” he added with a humored smile.

He poured hot water into a mug and took it up to Harry’s counterpart, leaving Harry feeling oddly called out.

“Everything all right?” Tom asked.

“Yeah. Yeah. Eggs?”

“I’ll pass.” Tom sat heavily at the kitchen table, circles under his eyes.

For four days straight he had been back at work on the portal, trying and failing to get it operational. Harry had listened to him storm about it just last night, not following half of what he said, but being supportive all the same, though elation had filled his stomach. Every day that the portal didn’t work meant another day with his parents.

 

**xXx**

 

The jaspis, crushed into a powder and infused with Fawkes’ ashes, had helped stabilize the portal, but it still wasn’t right. Tom paced the outer edge, scowling, trying to pinpoint the error in the intricate lacework of magic spanning the floor.

“Shit.”

Tom turned and Harry — the other Harry — stood in the doorway, gazing at the portal, astounded. It was the first time he’d been out of his bedroom.

“Mum and Dad told me you’re working on a way to zing yourself back, but I didn’t picture anything like this.” He moved into the room. “Are those _five_ dimensional inversions? How are you keeping them from imploding?”

Tom stared.

“You know the Brazelwost Theorem?”

“Course,” said Potter. “But I think old Brazelwost would have a stroke if he saw what you’ve done to it. Will it work?”

“Not as it is now,” Tom admitted.

“Walk me through it?”

He did and Tom had never experienced anything more unnerving than Harry following along and then suggesting, “What about a spiral alignment?”

“You can conjure a spiral alignment?”

“Course I can,” said Potter, laughing. “Can the other me not?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Tom let the awkward exchange fall away.  “That sort of spellwork’s risky. To be honest, I’ve been putting it off, hoping to find another way to make it work without it.”

“It could blow up the house,” Potter agreed. “Or—”

“It could be exactly what I need.” Glaring, Tom drummed his fingers against his hips, considering the options. “All right.” He passed Potter a quill and parchment. “We’ll sketch it out to the very last detail. Unless you should be resting?”

“I’m fine,” said Potter, his eyes brightening as a smile burst into life. He grabbed the scroll and settled cross-legged onto the floor and began the first calculation.

Even the simplest spiral alignment was exhausting, but working with Potter was … fun. Tom felt strangely nostalgic. With used tea cups scattered about, he was sent back to a time when he and Harry had banded together in the Carcerem, pouring through book after book in search of their mysterious Leech. It took him back to nights when he and Harry lay twined in bed or under the stars, discussing magic until dawn.

Potter pushed a fresh equation under Tom’s nose. He had rolled up his sleeves and the Dark Mark drew Tom’s eyes. Potter noticed.

“I still can’t believe he doesn’t have one,” he said, pushing his sleeves back down.

“Our worlds are very different.”

“No shit.”

Tom snorted, humored. Harry and his counterpart had their differences … and their similarities, but his voice softened as he said, “I’m sorry you were given it. I can’t remove it. If I could, I would.”

Potter looked at him as if he’d said something incredible.

“Are you _sure_ you were the Dark Lord?”

Tom smirked. “I was the best.”

Potter laughed and then he asked in a rush, as if he feared he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t say it then and there: “Why doesn’t he have it?”

Tom had been expecting such a question ever since Potter had stepped inside the room. He set their calculations aside.

“Your parents haven’t explained?”

“Bits,” Potter admitted. “They told me you two were stuck in the Carcerem and everything’s peachy now.”

Tom heard the bitter undercurrent in Potter’s voice.

“You shouldn’t stack yourself up against him.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I just want to know,” said Potter. “I just want to know how things could have gone. No one will tell me.”

Tom took in the face he knew so well.

“Telling you that won’t make you feel better. If it’s any consolation, I made a good portion of his life a misery.” Tom smiled as Potter snorted. “You’re more alike than you think,” he added. “You’re both survivors, so keep surviving.”

Potter sniffed as if he had a bad head cold and then he studied Tom openly.

“Nah,” he said. “No way you were a dark lord.”

 

**xXx**

 

“Harry? Are you okay?”

“What?” said Harry, jerking back to his surroundings. He’d thought he’d heard it again — that soft laugh … a breath tickling the shell of his ear. Across the chess board, his dad studied him and Harry quickly shook off the goosebumps. “Sorry. My move?”

“You really don’t have to stay up with me,” said his dad.

“I want to,” Harry insisted. He moved a pawn and immediately saw that he’d placed himself in checkmate.

His dad quirked an eyebrow. “Good thing we’re not betting anything.”

Groaning, Harry rubbed his eyes.

“Harry, you look dead on your feet. Why don’t you go to bed? If you want, I’ll wake you the moment your mum gets in.”

“I’m fine,” said Harry, forcefully. He didn’t want to go to sleep. Sleep meant a return to Nothingness and the Leech. Last night it had nearly touched him. He rose. “Set the board. I’m getting a butterbeer. Want one?”

“Why not,” his dad replied. “You sure you’re okay?” he added.

“Yes,” Harry repeated, returning from the kitchen and unscrewing both bottles. “I don’t see you harassing the other me into turning in,” he said testily as voices issued from overhead. It had been a jarring sight to climb the stairs after breakfast and discover Tom and his double working together. Harry had darted out of sight before either of them noticed he was there. Since morning, they’d remained cloistered upstairs. They’d even continued on at the dinner table, scribbling runes and god-knows-what on a five foot long scroll, barely paying Harry and his dad a glance.

“I guess I’m working on one stubborn son at a time,” said his dad lightly. “They look like they’re making serious progress.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it.”

Happy? Harry hadn’t experienced _happy_ in days. He was angry and irritated and just the sight of his double sharing a grin with Tom made him want to punch him in his face.

“I’m just tense,” he said instead.

“You’ve been through a lot,” his dad agreed. “We all have.”

“And there’s still more. Loads more. Tracking down those Horcruxes —”

“Harry,” his dad sighed, “we’ve been through this.”

“— _is dangerous._ For all we know that’s why Dumbledore died.”

“We don’t know how Dumbledore was captured,” his dad corrected.

Harry squeezed his fists under the table, praying for patience.

“Will you please just listen to me? I’ve _done_ this. I know what I’m talking about.”

“And you don’t think your mother and I can handle it?”

“That’s not what I’m — I don’t want you getting hurt!”

His dad’s face softened. “We’ll be careful. And thanks to you and Tom, we are far more prepared than we ever could have hoped. Because of you we’re going to finally be able to end this.”

The clock on the wall chimed three in the morning and the front door opened.

“Lily’s back!” said his dad, delighted, jumping up and leaving the room. Harry followed him into the foyer. “Everything go okay? How’d they take Snape?”

“As well as you could hope,” said his mum, tired but pleased. She removed her cloak just as a clamber of feet on the stairs had them turning.

Wild-haired, the other Harry gripped the rail and shouted for all of them to hear, “We did it!”

“What?” gasped Harry’s mum.

“You got the portal working?” said his dad.

“Nearly,” Tom clarified, appearing behind Harry’s double, but he was beaming. “Tomorrow we’ll make the finishing touches.”

And Harry was being hugged by his parents and more butterbeers were passed out. Zola, agitated by the noise, sought sanctuary under a chair.

“I wouldn’t have been able to do it without Harry,” Tom was telling them.

The doppelgänger snorted. “Says the bloke who made a portal in a week. I really think you could have.”

Everyone laughed.

His mum turned to him, hugging him again. “You’re going home tomorrow! Oh, Harry. Oh, thank goodness!”

“Yeah,” said Harry, hoisting up a smile. “Best news.”

 

**xXx**

 

By five in the morning, James called an end to the celebration, urging everyone to turn in. Tom couldn’t remember the last time he felt so electric. His fingertips buzzed. As he stripped off his clothes and Harry pulled back the sheets, he realized he hadn’t spoken a word to him since that morning, so focused on finally working through the last glitch in the portal.

“What did you get up to today?” he asked him.

“Oh, you know,” Harry answered, “stuff. You and the other me did some really great things today. Finishing the portal. Wow.”

Sliding under the sheets, Tom paused at the tone in Harry’s voice. It was too cheerful. Almost painfully so.

“You should have joined us.”

“You kidding?” said Harry with a laugh that sounded almost harsh. “Being the third wheel to a genius think tank? No thanks.” He clicked off the lamp and curled onto his side, his back to Tom.

“I still would have liked to see you,” said Tom, moving closer. Placing a hand upon Harry’s shoulder, he noticed how stiff his muscles were, as if they were all clenched. “I know this hasn’t been the best of vacations,” he began, trying to rub some of the tension under his hands away, “but I’ll make it up to you. Where would you like to go? Morocco? Cuba?” He scooped an arm around Harry’s chest, kissing his shoulder blade. “We could get a house on one of those private islands, just us. It’ll be like old times.” His hand slid down Harry’s stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers.

Harry shifted. “I’m not in the mood, Tom.”

“As if that’s ever stopped us,” Tom replied, grinning, thinking of all the times Harry had mumbled something similar and then wrapped his arms around him, kissing him with a passion that sent Tom’s head spinning.

“I’m serious,” Harry snapped, shoving Tom’s hand away. “I’m _not_ in the mood.”

“Harry, what’s the matter?”

Harry sat up and turned to him. In the dark, Tom felt his rage like a radiator.

“You want to know what’s the matter? Okay. This world’s on the brink of another war, my parents are going to be tracking down Horcruxes, Dumbledore’s dead — but, hey!  Who cares? Let’s go on another vacation!”

“I didn’t mean—”

“And you’ve been lying to me!”

“I’ve what?”

“You’re really going to pretend you haven’t?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Zola spilled the beans, Tom.”

His stomach clenched.

“She told me you left,” Harry went on, “which is _so_ _strange_ because I never remembered you leaving. And then it finally dawned on me. The tea. The day I fell asleep on the couch. You _drugged_ me.”

Harry was beyond angry.

“I can explain—”

“Where did you go?” Harry demanded.

“Ireland. To speak with my counterpart.”

Harry sucked in a breath.

“ _What?_ ”

“The phoenix ash wasn’t enough to stabilize the portal. I needed jaspis. He was the only one who could get it.”

“And what did he want in return?”

Tom hesitated.

“A memory.”

“A memory,” Harry repeated. “A memory of _what_?”

“Us.”

“Us doing _what_?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Us doing _what_ , Tom?”

“Sex.”

Harry looked like a ship that had lost its sails, jolted to an abrupt halt.

“It was just a memory,” Tom assured him, though he too was still perplexed by Voldemort’s request for it. He’d never been a voyeur. “No harm done.”

“You gave You-Know-Who a memory of us,” Harry whispered, voice shaking with fury, “and you say no harm done?”

“Harry …” Tom frowned in confusion. “Out of everything he could have asked for … I don’t understand why you’re this upset.”

“I’m upset because you decided to see You-Know-Who on your own regardless of the danger —”

“I am perfectly capable of handling my doppelgänger,” Tom snapped, impatient. 

“It could have been a _trap._ ”

“It wasn’t.”

“You didn’t know that!” Harry shouted. “You left without backup, without telling anyone and you could have gotten us all killed! But you don’t give a fuck as long as you get what you need. Who cares who gets hurt along the way. After all, he only wanted a _stupid memory_.”

“Harry, what—”

“I wonder if the Death Eaters get together for movie nights,” he went on viciously. “Grab some popcorn and watch the Dark Lord fuck the boy who lived!”

Tom jerked as if Harry had punched him. He threw back the sheets, grabbed his dressing gown and plowed out of the room.

_Salazar._

Crisper than an apple, the night air filled his lungs as he stormed from the house, his bare feet squelching in the mire. He clenched his fists and tried to breathe.

**_Salazar._ **

His fingers itched for his wand but he’d left it upstairs on the headboard.

“He kick you out?”

Tom turned. A glowing pinprick bloomed into life and the smell of smoke reached Tom’s nose. Potter sat on the garden wall and in his hand was a cigarette.

“Where did you get that?”

“Summoned it,” said Potter. “Good thing I’m good at it. With how long it took, closest town’s probably a hundred miles from here. Want some?”

Tom joined him on the wall. He took a pull and spiraled back to London — noisy, crowded, stuffy London. He breathed out, long and slow. God, it had been _ages_.

“Could have picked better,” he said, flicking away ash.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Potter replied. “I hate them,” he added dispassionately.

“Then why summon them?” Tom asked.

Potter’s thin shoulders bunched. “It gets too much sometimes.”

“Substituting one addiction for another is not a good choice, Harry.” In Potter’s silence, he passed back the cigarette. “You get this one and then you’re throwing the rest away.”

Swift as a snitch, Potter’s smile appeared and left. “So, _did_ he kick you out or do you just like walking around in your undies?”

Tom snorted. He took his turn with the cigarette. Now that they weren’t fighting, Tom saw Harry’s anger for what it really was.

“He’s upset. He doesn’t want to leave.”

“Why doesn’t he want to leave?” Potter asked, baffled.

Tom exhaled, watching the trail of smoke dissolve into the night. “It’s complicated.”

Potter did not press for details and they sat in silence until—

“I asked him to marry me.”

Tom felt Potter’s eyes upon him. He took another deep pull, relishing the burn. It was the first time he’d said it aloud. The first time he’d shared his desire to spend the rest of his days with Harry. Granger, Weasley, Robards, Shacklebolt — none of them knew. Tom hadn’t realized how heavy those words weighed upon him until they left his lips. How Harry’s prolonged muteness on the subject had dragged him down.

“When?” Potter asked.

“Shortly before that idiot phoenix sabotaged everything.”

“Mazel tov.”

Tom cracked a grin at Potter’s dry congratulations. Eyes fixed upon Orion’s Belt, he replied, “Thank you, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a feeling,” said Tom, his chest constricting so tightly it was difficult to breathe. He inhaled another lungful of smoke and, realizing he’d been hogging it, passed the cigarette back. “He hasn’t said yes.”

“He’s an idiot if he doesn’t,” Potter said flatly. “It’s not every day a good-looking, reformed Dark wizard strolls into your life. Anyone would fall over themselves for you.”

Tom chuckled. “I think the nicotine’s getting to your head.”

“No. Really,” said Potter, serious. “He’s a moron.”

Before Tom could reply, Potter had swung one leg across his lap, had taken his face in his hands, and kissed him. Lips parted and a tongue slid inside Tom’s mouth. He sank into it. Harry … Harry …

Tom gripped Potter by the arms and pushed him back.

“ _No_.”

“Don’t be noble,” Potter snapped, refusing to be dislodged. “It doesn’t look good on you.”

“We are not doing this.”

Potter dug his fingers into Tom’s hair, dragging his nails along his scalp.

“Open your eyes. I _am_ him.”

“No,” Tom repeated. Salazar, how had this happened? “No.”

“You keep saying that, but I’m not hearing any reasons.”

“Because you’re not — Harry!” Tom jumped to his feet, sending Potter flying.

“Shit,” Potter hissed, noticing the figure standing just out of sight.

In the moonlight, Harry stood rigid. He’d seen everything.

 

**xXx**

 

Harry’s toes were ice cubes, mud seeping up between them, but he hardly noticed.

“See?” hissed a sibilant voice in his ear. “ _I told you._ ”

A firm body pressed flush against Harry’s back. Long arms snaked around him like Devil’s Snare; Harry couldn’t have pulled away if he’d tried.

“He doesn’t want you anymore,” the Horcrux breathed. “He’s found someone better.”

Harry’s lungs struggled for oxygen. Even his eyes had trouble focusing, colors swirling and misting into red.

_No. Tom loves me._

The Horcrux laughed in his ear. “Still so naive. There is no such thing as _love_. There is only lust. Only the animalistic drive to fuck. Would he grope another if he _loved_ you? Would he stick his tongue down someone else’s throat if you were his one and only?”

_No. No, he —_

“You thought you would be enough for him? You thought he _cared_ about you? Look at him — _look at them_ — and tell me otherwise.”

_I — I —_

The Horcrux dissolved and then reappeared, standing before him, blocking the sight of Tom and his counterpart, but the picture of them remained plastered to Harry’s eyes as if etched there, two bodies twined together, bathed in scarlet.

“They should pay for hurting you,” whispered the Horcrux. In the sea of red, he offered his hand, eyes burning with revenge, with murder. Deep in Harry’s chest, the Silence hummed.

“Come, Harry. Let’s hurt them together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horcruxes … they’re so very sneaky.


	17. THIRTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the previous chapter left many of you startled and screaming into the void. It was a brutal cliff hanger, but it had to happen. The structure and flow of the chapter below just wouldn’t have run smooth tacked onto the one before it. They needed a separation. 
> 
> It’s never stated outright what AU Voldemort’s Horcruxes are in this world. We all assume he made seven (which he did), but Nagini has not once been mentioned and we know AU Harry isn’t a Horcrux, so that’s two mystery Horcruxes up in the air. The Silence is an item that is exclusive to this world and has a dark glamor about it: no one’s claimed it in centuries, it’s exceedingly powerful, etc, etc, etc. That is an item that would have attracted good Ol’ Tom Riddle Jr just as much as the relics belonging to the Four Founders did. I was worried about giving away too much about the Silence’s true identity, so I kept it subtle, but in retrospect, I realize I might have been _too_ subtle. :) 
> 
> The beginning of this chapter contains flashbacks belonging to our Canon boys. They take place after they get rid of the Leech and before they go on vacation in Peru.

**_November 22, 1998 — St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_ **

“Here you are,” said the witch, passing Tom a clipboard. “If you would please sign—”

“Yes, yes, I know.” He’d been present when Harry had done the same in September. Tom flipped the pages, jotting down his signature as quickly as he could, hardly taking in the contents. A great portion of his brain was still preoccupied with the conversation he’d just had with Harry in the ward upstairs.

 _Why don’t I pick up some dinner_ , he’d said as Tom traded the hospital’s robes for his own clothing. _I’ll meet you at the Cornithia. I can catch you up on work._

Casual words, but Tom had seen the suggestive gleam in Harry’s eyes. Work would be the last thing they’d be _catching_ _up_ on.

“Hold on,” said the witch, straightening, “aren’t you that Auror in the papers?”

“Probably,” Tom replied, signing a blue form and then a pink. Salazar. Forget blood-purity and Muggles and house elves. If anyone wanted to change the world for the better, they needed to look into St. Mungo’s ridiculous—

“You _are_ ,” gasped the witch. “You’re Harry Potter’s partner! _Oh!_ What’s he like?”

Tom blinked at her. Hadn’t this been the same woman who’d watched Harry sign half a dozen forms nearly three months ago, but then again, maybe it hadn’t been. They all looked the same to Tom.

“He’s …”

Glorious. Golden.

“Wonderful,” Tom answered.

The witch propped her elbows on the counter, gazing at Tom rapturously. “You’re so lucky,” she sighed. “What I’d give to —”

“Auror Thorne, back on your feet?”

Tom turned. Shacklebolt and Robards stood before him. The witch pinked at the sight of the Minister and Head Auror.

Yes.” Tom pushed the clipboard back to her. “I was just heading out.”

As the witch put away Tom’s paperwork, Shacklebolt and Robards both took a half step closer.

“Harry told us what you did,” Shacklebolt said in an undertone. He held out his hand. Momentarily taken aback by the gesture, Tom took it.

“Better be careful,” Robards warned in a gravely whisper. “Keep doing shit like saving the world and you might get a chocolate frog card.”

Tom grinned. “I’ll do my best to keep it at a minimum.”

 

* * *

 

When he finally made it to the Cornithia he was unbearably nervous, palms sweating, heart pounding. He’d never been nervous before. Never. Not even when he made his first Horcrux. Was this how people usually felt? It was awful.

Swallowing the butterflies, Tom unlocked his flat’s door with a tap of his wand.

Glorious.

Golden.

Harry stood in his flat, a sack of takeaway on the kitchen counter.

“I got Indian,” he said. “Thought you’d like a change up.”

But Harry hadn’t unpacked the food. He hadn’t even untied the sack’s knot. How long had he been standing there, staring at the door, waiting for Tom to enter? His smile was soft. Everything about him — soft, open, welcoming.

Tom crossed the short distance until he stood right before him. The butterflies returned in a frenzy, making his fingertips tremble. Two days ago Harry had said he loved him.

“I love you,” Tom whispered.

Harry’s smile spread and the sight of it made Tom’s chest fill with sunlight.

“I like hearing you say that.”

“I love you,” Tom repeated, slipping his hands under Harry’s cardigan. “I love you. I love you.” He kissed his neck, feeling Harry’s rapid pulse. “I love you. I love you. I…” The words grew muffled by lips and tongues.

Harry broke the kiss, eyes smoldering.

“Can I top tonight?”

Tom’s heart skipped a beat. Harry had never voiced an interest in switching roles, and it was, without a doubt, the most erotic thing he’d ever heard.

“I’m all yours,” he breathed.

 

* * *

 

Tom opened his eyes and found himself nose to nose with Harry. The low, rumbling sound of Yorkshire traffic outside the window was a pleasant, distant hum. For a moment, Tom simply lay still, watching Harry sleep, memorizing how the morning light fell across his face, before kissing him awake.

Harry smiled against his lips. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Eyes closed, Harry nuzzled up under Tom’s chin. “What’s the time?”

Tom glanced at the clock. “Quarter past nine.”

“ _What?_ ” Harry shot up like a jack-in-the-box. “Shit!” He scrambled out of the bed and raced into the main room, a flash of skin.

Tom rose up onto his palms. “What is it?”

“Andromeda’s bringing Teddy,” Harry shouted from the other room. He blew past the bedroom door half dressed, tugging his shirt over his head while trying to yank up his jeans. “I told you to set the alarm!”

“You never told me to set the alarm.”

“Well, I meant to. Where are my shoes?”

“Under the couch?” Tom suggested. Once they’d begun, they had been ferocious in removing each other’s clothing.

“ _Accio!_ ”

A second later, Harry hopped back into the bedroom, pulling on his trainers with one arm through his cardigan. He reached the bed and suddenly all franticness vanished. He took Tom’s face in his hands and kissed him full on the mouth, slow and savoring. Tom took hold of his wrist, keeping him in place and kissed him back.

“I — have — to — go,” Harry mumbled through the kiss, half-heartedly struggling to pull away.

“Just five more minutes,” Tom whispered, tugging him back onto the bed.

The kiss deepened and Harry’s knee was on the mattress. Tom palmed him through his jeans.

“God, you’re awful,” Harry moaned. Straddling Tom’s hips, he couldn’t stop himself from grinding against his hand. “But — I — have — to — go.” And before Tom could get a better hold of him, Harry had leapt off the bed, straightened his jeans, worked his other arm through the sleeve of his cardigan, flashed Tom a radiant smile and darted back out of the room, flinging a cheerful “Love you!” over his shoulder. A second later, Tom heard his floo erupt into life.

 

* * *

 

 

**_February 14, 1999 — Diagon Alley_ **

****

Harry entered Flourish and Blotts, intensely uncomfortable. He half expected a spotlight to swivel onto him and a great silence to fall as heads turned, but no one noticed him. Momentarily relieved, he hurried past the checkout counter with his head bowed. There, safely hidden in the Studies of Invisibility, Harry released a shaky exhale. He’d been avoiding Flourish for days, ever since a spontaneous kiss in a secluded aisle had been plastered across the Daily Prophet.

But so far so good.

Harry quickly snatched up the book he needed and made to head back to the cashier when he spotted a large, glossy sign: _Seveste Thorne, The Amorous Collection._

Harry stilled, recognizing the name. Wasn’t that some poet Camile Zabini had been going on about? He scanned the poster and saw her listed as host to a private reading beginning at eight tonight. Beside the sign was a display of the books. They looked chaste enough, the cover a black and white photograph of a bare shoulder and back. Knowing Tom would get a kick out of it, Harry picked up a copy and headed to the clerk.

 

* * *

 

He Apparated home and found the cottage empty. Tom had not yet returned from his stroll through the maze that was the Auror evidence storage unit. When a fresh murder took too long to land on their desk, Tom dug about in the cold cases. If Tom wasn’t careful his hobby was going to triple their work load.

Harry settled on the couch and flipped open the _Amorous Collection_ to a random page. His eyes widened. His mouth dropped open.

 _Holy…_  

Amorous put it mildly. Harry grew hot around the collar as a four page poem revealed the lustful encounter of three woodland nymphs and a stable hand. Thorne’s writing thrummed with blistering passion. Oil-slicked limbs, clove-scented hips, plush fruit, sticky-sweet, grinding, aching, swelling—

The floo flared into life and Harry flinched violently; the book sailed from his fingers across the room. He jumped to his feet just as Tom stepped from the fireplace.

“Hi!” said Harry, too loudly.

Tom stilled.

“Why are you flushed?”

“I’m not flushed.”

“Only a radish is redder than you. What have you been doing?”

“Nothing,” said Harry in a high pitched squeak. Gruffly, he cleared his throat. “Find any good murders?”

But Tom had spotted the book on the floor. Before Harry could stop him, it zoomed around the coffee table and into his waiting hand. A smile formed as he took in the cover.

“My, my, Harry. I had no idea.”

It shouldn’t have been possible, but Harry turned redder.

“I was just curious!” he said, defensive.

Still smiling, Tom turned the pages. “And?”

Harry cleared his throat again, trying to sound scholarly while his face burned hotter than the surface of the sun.

“It's … something.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Something?”

“Yep,” Harry replied, determined to leave it at that, until Tom began to recite, speaking of serpents that weren’t serpents at all and the dark, warm, tight caves they slithered, pressing in deep, deep, so deep.

“Fuck,” Harry breathed.

“Shall we?” Tom asked, smirking. “Or we could go through this case I found of a decapitated—”

Harry silenced him with a kiss.

* * *

 

**_July 26, 1999 — The Cottage on the Hill_ **

Tom ladled two bowls of chicken soup from the pot on the stove. Levitating the tray, he climbed the stairs of their cottage and the sounds of vomiting reached his ears. He set the tray down on their bedroom dresser before heading to the bathroom. Peering around the door, he asked, “Still alive?”

Dry heaving over the toilet, Harry gave him a weak thumbs up. “Goddamn fairy flu.” Shivering and pale, Harry washed out his mouth and spat into the sink.

Tom helped him shuffle back to bed. Even after seven months, the sight of their room sparked great pride in Tom. He really had outdone himself. It was fine enough for a king or the Heir of Slytherin.

“You’re on the mend,” Tom reminded him. “You haven’t spoken in limericks all day.”

“Yay,” said Harry miserably.

Under the sheets, Harry propped himself up against the headboard. Tom joined him, setting the tray on Harry’s lap and cradling his own bowl.

“Eat up,” he urged. “We’ve got to get you better. I’ve made plans.”

Harry blew on a spoonful. “What kind of plans?”

“I’ve booked us a three week vacation.”

The spoon halted midway to Harry’s mouth.

“What?”

“We leave on the 30th. It’s my birthday gift.”

Harry gaped. “ _Three weeks?_ Where are we going?”

“Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you,” Tom replied.

“Three weeks?” Harry repeated, astounded.

“I’ve sorted it all out with Robards; you don’t need to worry about that.”

“I — no one’s ever — I’ve never been on a … hold on. You _have_ to tell me where we’re going. How else am I supposed to pack?”

In reply, Tom ate soup.

“Oh, come on,” said Harry, beginning to laugh. “That’s crazy! At least give me a hint.”

“No.”

“You said you wouldn’t keep secrets anymore,” Harry reminded him.

“Surprises are different,” Tom said primly.

Harry laughed in earnest now. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

Color bloomed in Harry’s cheeks. He snorted. “I’m in sweats, I nearly heaved up a lung and you call me beautiful?”

“Because you are.”

Harry’s lips twisted into an embarrassed smile. Tom snaked one arm around his shoulders and kissed his hair. Under the duvet, their feet sought each other.

Tom knew Harry preferred the reds and golds of Gryffindor, but really, Slytherin colors suited him far better.

 

* * *

 

**_August 18, 1999 — The Murk Fields_ **

****

“Harry?”

Tom took a hesitant step forward, Potter hovering behind him. Before them, Harry stood like a statue.

“What’s wrong with him?” Potter hissed.

“Harry?” Tom repeated, louder. “Harry, can you hear me?”

“Maybe he’s sleepwalking,” Potter suggested.

“Harry doesn’t sleepwalk,” Tom snapped, though the possibility that Harry might not have seen what he and Potter had been doing was enough to have him hoping otherwise. He took another step, unnerved by Harry’s stillness. “Harry?”

Potter gripped his arm.

“Tom,” he breathed, “look at his feet.”

The ground where Harry stood had iced over, the ground freezing rock solid and spreading outward. Tom had only a second to act: he shoved Potter to the ground as the Silence burst into existence in Harry’s hand. They hit the ground hard as the stone wall blew to pieces.

“What the fuck?” Potter shouted.

“Get my wand!” Tom ordered as mortar showered them in a frozen dust cloud. “It’s in the bedroom!”

Potter pointed his wand past Tom’s shoulder.

“ _Accio!_ ”

Tom held out his hand and a heartbeat later, his wand smacked into his palm. They both scrambled upright as the cloud settled; Harry’s form loomed before them, the Silence a humming, burning blade. In the weapon’s glow, Tom could finally see Harry’s face and he saw … he saw …

“Expelliarmus!”

Harry swung the Silence up to meet his double’s spell. It hit the flat of the blade and glowed brighter, but the spell did not work. The Silence remained fixed in Harry’s hand.

“What’s going on out here?”

Woken by the sounds, James and Lily emerged from the cottage’s front door. In the blue glow of the glaive, Harry looked directly at his double and smiled. He pointed the Silence at the cottage. It exploded.

“NO!”

Potter screamed as wood shot hundreds of feet into the air.

“YOU BAS—”

Tom grabbed Potter’s arm, yanking him away from the marsh, away from the ruined house, away from Harry. A moment later, they slammed against a brick wall in a London back alley.

“Let me go!” Potter yelled, kicking and punching. “LET ME GO!”

“Harry, stop!”

“HE KILLED THEM — HE —”

Pinning him to the wall, Tom slapped a hand over Potter’s mouth.

“They’re not dead,” he hissed fiercely. “They’re not dead, Harry. They’re _not_.”

Salazar, let that be so.

Potter’s glare scorched, but he stopped struggling.

“We need a place to hide,” said Tom.

“ _You_ can hide,” Potter snarled.

He tried to shove Tom away, but Tom gripped him harder, pushing him back against the wall.

“ _The Silence is a Horcrux!_ ”

Potter froze.

“What?” he breathed.

“I saw Harry’s face; I know the signs,” Tom gritted. Harry’s eyes … Harry’s eyes had burned red. “He’s being possessed—”

“But he can’t be,” Potter argued. “The Dark Lord couldn’t have turned the Silence into a Horcrux. You can’t step over the temple’s circle with a wand.”

“I don’t know how he did it,” Tom snapped, furious. “But I do know what someone looks like under the influence of one and as long as the Horcrux has control of him we cannot go back to the safe house.”

“There _isn’t_ a safe house anymore! Your boyfriend just blew it up along with my—”

A ghostly stag bounded out of the night and Tom’s heart jumped at the sight. Had Harry broken free? But it was James’ voice that issued from the patronus.

“We got out. We’re okay. Stay hidden. Respond when secure.”

The stag vanished and Potter sagged against the brickwork.

“You’re _sure_ he’s being possessed?” he asked after a moment. “You’re _sure_ he’s not just royally pissed off?”

“I’m sure,” said Tom grimly.

“Shit,” said Potter under his breath. “Shit.” He pushed off the wall, pointed his wand at two discarded soda cans and they transfigured into shoes. “Put those on. We’ve got a walk.”

“Where are we going?”

“I know a place we can stay. Follow me.”

Tom white-knuckled his wand as they left their dark alley, entering a main road. He had Apparated them to Muggle London, but for a moment he thought he’d hit the wrong city. The streets were practically deserted; only a lone taxi cab sped past them, its taillights glaring. For London to be so quiet, so empty … the hairs rose on his neck as he looked upward. Dementors swooped past flickering light posts and window-smashed buildings. The night teemed with them. Tom had never seen so many.

They walked swiftly, taking such a serpentine route that Tom was positive Potter feared their steps were being dogged. Abandoned cars and vandalized shop fronts grew in number. A gang of loud, raucous teenagers threw a beer bottle at them from across the street.

“How much farther?” Tom demanded.

“Not much,” Potter replied tensely, leading him down yet another smelly alley. “Another block.”

Above their heads a couple stormed at each other, their voices carrying through their flat’s open window.

“Don’t tell me she’s _just a friend_ , you lying piece of shit!”

A plate sailed straight through the open window, shattering against the fire escape. Potter and Tom kept walking.

 _How had he not known? How had he not sensed it?_ Bile rose, fear choking him. _Where was Harry now? What was he doing? Was he with Voldemort?_

“Here.” Potter stepped up before a grimy door of an even more derelict-looking apartment building than the one they’d just passed. He pressed a forefinger to the buzzer. A moment later, a very familiar voice issued through the speaker.

“We didn’t order takeaway,” said Ron Weasley.

“Black cat with mouse,” Potter replied.

There was a pause on the other end and then the door unlocked with a buzz and clunk. They entered a dark storage room. The heavy door swung shut behind them, locking automatically. Potter walked straight to an elevator located in the back.

“The Weasleys are alive?” said Tom.

“You sound surprised,” said Potter as the lift’s doors opened.

“I thought otherwise. Bella told me—”

“When did you run into Bellatrix?”

“On the first day here.”

The lift jerked upward and Potter kept his eyes on the moving arrow above the doors. “You know them in your world? The Weasleys?”

“Harry’s very close to them.”

“They got into some trouble a year ago,” Potter explained. “They were caught passing food to some of the Muggle-born slums. I got a tipoff about the arrests, but I only managed to sneak Ron, Fred, George and Ginny away.”

“And the others?” Tom asked.

“Azkaban,” Potter said shortly. “That’s where he puts most of the pure-blood traitors.”

“And the Delacours?”

“Bella _was_ chatty.” Potter’s voice was bitter. As the lift juddered to a stop, he said, “I can’t save everyone.”

 

* * *

 

Tom let Potter do the talking, explaining the last two and a half weeks to Ron, his twin brothers, and sister. Harry would have been ecstatic to learn that Fred was alive, but everyone else … it was difficult to imagine Molly and Arthur and the rest of the raucous family being trapped on that hellish island. It was astounding that they didn’t attack Tom on sight or perhaps it was a testament of their respect for the boy who’d saved their lives. Tom wondered how many more people Potter had successfully diverted from danger. It was just the sort of thing Harry would do.

They were all gathered in a shabby lobby. Wallpaper peeled from the walls in strips; a stained sofa sagged next to a sticky coffee table. As Potter spoke, Tom paced up down before an old fashioned ice maker and a vending machine.

“Just so I’m clear,” the dead twin said when Potter finally finished. “ _He’s_ You-Know-Who from a parallel universe, but he’s good now and the other you is under the control of _our_ You-Know-Who and is now evil.”

“Pretty much,” said Potter.

“Well that’s not confusing at all,” said the twin — Fred — cheerfully.

“How can we help?” Ginny asked.

“We need to get Harry back,” said Tom.

“But Harry just said he’s under You-Know-Who’s control,” said Ron, who looked, perhaps, even more gangly than the Ron Tom was used to.

“It is the Silence that’s controlling him,” Tom explained. “We must destroy it. For that we’ll need Fiendfyre.”

The group blanched.

“You crazy?” cried George. “There’s no such thing as a safe place for that shit.”

“The other option is to retrieve a basilisk’s fang and the only basilisk I know of is at Hogwarts. Which option would you prefer?” said Tom, his temper rising.

Potter stepped between them. “Maybe you should take a break. Cool off.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Tom hissed.

“It’s late. It’s nearly dawn. You’re upset—”

“How perceptive of you to notice.”

“What you’re talking about could end up catastrophically bad. We need to plan this out.”

“If you don’t want to help, that’s fine.”

“Hey!” said Fred, angry. “That’s not what he’s saying—”

“I’ll deal with this on my own,” said Tom.

“Why can’t you just take a minute to —”

“The longer we wait, the more in danger Harry becomes!” Tom roared. “He is being _possessed_ and the longer that continues the quicker —” His voice caught on the words, the ever present terror splintering his ribs. “The quicker he will die.”

A hush fell over the moldy lobby.

“If there’s going to be a fight, you’ll need something other than that dressing gown,” said Potter.

“We’ve got some spare clothes,” said Ginny. “You look like Ron’s size.”

“Get changed. Meet us back here,” said Potter. “We’ll be going over locations.”

“I can do this on my own,” Tom repeated.

“Do us all a favor and shut the fuck up,” Potter barked, making the others stare. “You’re not doing this alone so stop acting like it. And Ron—”

“Yeah?”

“If Errol’s still alive, can I borrow him? I need to send my parents a message.”

 

* * *

 

Weasley left him alone in one of the numerous rooms, returning to the others without speaking a word. Tom would give Potter the illusion of a plan, but the fact remained: whether it was in the middle of London or in the Forbidden Forest, Tom would cast Fiendfyre without hesitation. And then he would burn Voldemort down, piece by piece.

A scraping against glass had him turning. Now the size of a duck, Fawkes flapped outside the window. Tom rolled his wand between his fingers, itching to send the bird back to ashes.

With a jerk of his wrist, the window sprang open. Fawkes soared past his head in a sweeping arc. He settled, feathers ruffling, on top of the wardrobe.

“If he dies,” said Tom, “I will make your eternity a living hell.”

Harry’s voice echoed in his mind, bringing with it better days.

_You’re not being very respectful._

Tom held the phoenix’s gaze. The bird chirped low and throaty. It sounded almost apologetic. He opened the wardrobe and dressed.   

 

**xXx**

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d made the Silence one of us? Do you not trust me?”

Voldemort’s eyes cut to the Locket. “I saw no reason to.”

Ever since the boy’s arrival to the Palace, the Locket’s mood had soured. He was short-tempered. Irritated. Practically jealous.

“And just how exactly did you accomplish it?” the Locket pressed. “You need a wand in order to make a Horcrux and you can’t enter the circle with one.”

“ _You_ may need a wand,” Voldemort replied with a barely-there smirk, “but I am far more advanced in such magic.”

The Locket’s lips pressed thin, anger rolling off him in waves.

“Ready the others,” Voldemort commanded, amused. “Our new reign will begin shortly.”

The Locket flung a loathsome glare at Potter before departing, his hatred for Muggles overpowering his hatred for being outshone.

“Do not take it personal,” said Voldemort, turning to the boy. “He has grown comfortable outside his confines.”

Potter did not reply and frowning, Voldemort inquired, “Is he fighting you?”

Harry Potter’s eyes flickered, no longer green, but the fiery reds of hell.

“I have him under control,” the Horcrux answered. “He will not get in our way.”

 

**xXx**

 

After pecking his wife, Petunia, goodbye on the cheek, Vernon Dursley climbed into his car and started the engine. Rain pelted the windshield. Grumbling, he pulled out of the drive. Clearly those namby-pamby know-it-alls were morons with all that global warming tosh. If the earth was getting hotter, why the blazes was August now November? For almost twenty years the sky over England had been gray and miserable and it was getting worse by the day. People were starting to throw about words like ‘national disaster’ and ‘social crisis’ on the television. Out of habit, he reached for the radio, but thought better of it. It would just be more bad news. More freak explosions and weather anomalies. More disappearances. More panicked chatter about _zombies_.

Vernon gave himself a gruff little shake and gripped the steering wheel tighter, leaving Privet Drive behind. The Wasting Disease the news had coined it. Perfectly healthy people would collapse without warning. It had happened in the corner grocery just yesterday while Petunia had done her shopping. She had rushed home, locked herself in, and phoned Vernon.

“She looked so … empty,” Petunia had whispered.

Vernon turned onto the motorway, his jaws grinding, mustache bristling. He was a Brit, through and through. He was the last man alive who wanted to pack up and live somewhere foreign, but if the Wasting Disease had finally spread to Surrey, well, sod the whole goddamn country.

Dudders would be arriving tomorrow and Petunia had already packed up half the kitchen. Vernon was heading to the real estate agent, not that he expected a good price on the house. No one moved to England anymore.

Jittery, he flipped on the radio, tuning into a music station at random.

“We could move to Majorca,” Petunia had suggested last night. “Marge said nice things about it.”

But Vernon hated Spaniards as much as he hated the French and the Germans and the Ameri—

Vernon’s car shot out of its lane, his hands no longer on the wheel, his body no longer in the vehicle. The car careened head first into an oncoming school bus. Up and down the motorway, vehicles smashed into one another, flipping and spinning, plowing into ditches and trees.

 

**xXx**

 

“The Sahara is where we’ll do it,” Tom was saying, pouring over the maps Fred had unearthed.

Harry’s stomach clenched.

The Sahara. The Sahara where Tom’s Horcrux was hidden. In all the craziness, he hadn’t had the chance to go back and retrieve it. He wondered if it was even still there now that Tom knew he’d discovered the truth.

It probably wasn’t.

They were gathered in the hotel’s kitchen.

“How do we stop the Fiendfyre?” Ginny asked.

“Without sustenance the fire will extinguish itself,” Tom explained. “As long as the spell is cast far enough away from vegetation or any oasis—”

“Or us,” Ron interjected.

“— it will dissipate quickly,” Tom finished.

“And how do we get Possessed Potter —”

“ _His name is Harry_ ,” Tom gritted.

“Obvious,” said Ginny. “We make Portkeys.”

“I’ll do that,” said Harry before anyone else could offer.

“I’ll go with you,” said Ron.

“No, I want you all to stay here.”

Ginny crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

“Tom and I can handle this,” Harry continued, ignoring her. “When we destroy the Silence —”

Fred held up a finger. “I’m going to stop you right there. To quote someone I know: shut the fuck up.”

“This is going to be dangerous,” Harry insisted.

“Like that’s anything new,” said George.

“You don’t under—”

“How do we lure him out without bringing You-Know-Who along with him?” Ginny asked, speaking over Harry. “I don’t like our odds if we have to fight the Dark Lord, too, even with your help,” she added, addressing Tom.

They all fell silent, considering the problem and in the quiet, the radio that Ron always kept on seemed to increase in volume, like a buzzing fly you’d overlooked but only now noticed.

“… terrible traffic accident has just occurred on the, wait I—” The man’s voice turned puzzled. Mystified. “I’m receiving reports that there are no casualties. There — is this right?”

“What is it Bob?”

“I’m receiving word that there are no people in Surrey.”

Startled, Harry looked up and met Tom’s eyes. Shoes squeaked as they all rushed from the kitchen and into the lobby. Ginny reached the remote first, clicking on the television. An aerial view popped onto the screen as a helicopter flew over a stretch of highway. Cars littered the area like overturned toys, smoke billowing up into the air. Off camera a panicked woman was reporting:

“Surrey contains a population of over a million and there’s no one. I repeat, the entire county is vacated. Vehicles and homes have been abandoned. It’s as if they’ve all … vanished.”

“Harry’s there,” Tom breathed. He headed for the door. Harry scrambled after him.

“Tom, wait!”

“Get the Portkeys and meet me there,” Tom ordered. He Apparated before the door had swung shut.

 

* * *

 

Creating Portkeys was dangerous. Hodags could sniff them from miles away and be upon the place in seconds, hell’s hounds on the wind. Harry had heard a rumor from Rodolphus Lestrange that they were breeding them to smell inactive Portkeys. If that was the case then there wouldn’t be anywhere safe with a Portkey in your pocket.

They Apparated to a junk yard, well outside of London. The early morning light bounced off windshields and rusted bumpers. Cars, motorbikes, jeeps. Deflated tires as far at the eye could see. They scattered, moving quickly. Harry reached for two dirt-caked rivets. He stilled, his eyes landing upon a bottle peeking out from under a faded swim-suit magazine. He pushed the magazine aside and his heart jerked.

Euphoria. And it was half-full.

His mouth ran dry; his palms began to sweat.

“Does everyone have something?”

George’s voice seemed to come from underwater. Harry flinched as a heavy hand clasped his shoulder. He looked up into Ron’s face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“We gotta go.”

Nodding, Harry snatched up the rivets and followed him back to the others clustered around a lime green Mini Cooper. Each step felt like walking through tar.

“On the count of three then,” said Fred. “One, two…”

Perfectly synchronized, they each cast their spell. The junk in their palms glowed blue.

“Move!” Harry commanded, but he needn’t have done so. They each Disapparated instantly, reappearing in Surrey.

“Good God,” said Ginny under her breath.

The hairs on Harry’s arms rose as he took in his surroundings. The neighborhood where they stood was utterly silent. A baby stroller stood next to him. He looked inside but all that it contained was a blanket and a stuffed dinosaur.

“Anyone see—”

“I’m here,” said Tom, appearing silently beside Ron. Harry quickly passed him one of the rivets. “It’s like this everywhere.”

“But how?” asked Ginny, horrified. “How can an entire county just _disappear_?”

“It’s actually quite easy.”

They spun on the spot, wands drawn. Leaning casually against a picket fence was Harry’s double.

“But I won’t do it to you,” he said, straightening, the Silence clutched in his hand. “I’d rather watch you bleed.”

In a movement too fast to see, Tom slashed his wand and a cloud of smoke erupted between them and Harry’s double. Harry jumped out of the way as something whistled past his ear. Dull thunks sounded and he looked behind him. Embedded in the door of number four were spikes of ice, three inches thick and five feet long.

Cracks like starting pistols — his counterpart could fight. Harry watched as his twin dueled five against one like it was nothing. He blocked everything Tom threw at him; he disarmed Fred; he sent Ginny flying.

“You okay?” he asked as Ginny got back to her feet.

“Yeah,” she grimaced.

Running, he joined the battle. Ron shot a stunner; the double blocked it, the spell pinging off the glaive, making George duck. Ginny sent the baby stroller soaring at his head; he blasted it to pieces. Ropes shot from Harry’s wand, wrapping around his double’s ankle and arm. He sliced through them just as Tom Disapparated, reappearing right behind him, clamping his arms around him.

“NOW!” Harry roared, stuffing his hand in his pocket and squeezing the rivet. Six Portkeys activated, zooming them hundreds of miles. They crashed into blistering hot sand. Jumping up, Harry and the others ran, skidding and sliding down a dune where Tom and Potter fought, wrestling and rolling on the ground. Potter rammed his elbow into Tom’s face, dislodging him, but the Silence was in Tom’s hands — Potter lunged for it as Tom threw it as hard as he could, a wooden pole soaring through the air. Harry whipped out his wand and cast the curse that terrified him more than any other. Flames crackled and sparked into life, building upon themselves, rearing and roaring, twisting into snapping jaws. Chimeras and dragons dug their scorching claws into the sand, charging them. The Silence dove in a slow motion arc, straight into the open beak of a giant eagle. It swallowed it whole.

The eagle’s cry cut off abruptly as its flaming beak, head, neck, shoulders turned to ice. The ice spread like ink on parchment, bleeding through the Fiendfyre, freezing it solid.

“Wh-what?” Ron gasped.

For a second, the cursed fire was a glittering, monstrous statue of ravenous beasts and then it shattered, ice exploding into shards. Potter laughed and they all stumbled away from him. His grin was all wrong. Too wide. Too manic.

“ _My turn._ ”

He opened his right hand and the Silence appeared, untarnished and gleaming. He whipped it in a low half circle and sand billowed up, choking them, blinding them. The sand twisted up around them into walls, hardening as it froze solid, forming a maze. Harry and Tom dove to the left as Ron, Ginny, Fred and George darted to the right, a wall shooting up between them, icy spikes lining its face.

“What do we do?” Harry panted, leaping back to his feet. They were closed in, four spike-studded walls trapping them. Mist issued from his mouth even though they were in the Sahara. Nothing could survive Fiendfyre. Nothing.

Tom’s bottom lip was bleeding from where Potter had struck him. He didn’t reply.

“ _Tom—_ ”

“I don’t know!” he snarled.

Like a phantom, Harry’s double walked straight through an icy wall, entering their cell. The Silence’s blue light turned his skin ghostly and his eyes were as bright and red as Voldemort’s.

“So,” he asked, “which of you wants to die first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffy! I’m awful. :D
> 
> My explanation for how Voldy turned the Silence into a Horcrux might be a bit shaky, but I am exploring wandless magic in this story. It is a thing and with enough practice and concentration, wandless magic can be used for any spell. (The Temple’s Guardian would only be alerted if someone was trying to steal the Silence, so she wouldn’t have been called since Voldy wasn’t stealing it.) 
> 
> I like that AU Voldy can do things that our Tom and even his Horcruxes cannot do. I like that magic is a skill that can always be refined and improved. And I like that Voldy is such a bastard that he’d rub it into his younger self’s face.


	18. FOURTEEN

The rain fell softly, a gentle drum against the windowpanes. Harry had never felt so comfortable, so relaxed, spooned up against Tom’s side. They were both naked, an occurrence that had become normal in a shockingly short amount of time. He felt light as a feather. Brimming with contentment. This was more than bliss. This was heaven. He could stay like this forever.

Harry wondered if the rain would last all day. Wouldn’t it be nice if it did? They could spend it here, nestled beneath blankets and sheets, skin against skin; their own pillow fort. Harry’s fingers skated along Tom’s stomach, tracing the muscles that had become defined over months of sword fighting on the beach. Tom was sinewy and lean, but strong. When he had Harry pinned, it took everything he had to wriggle free.

Harry decided that he very much wanted them to spend as much of the morning in bed as possible. Every second that passed, the room lightened through the rain-drenched clouds. He could fix them both cups of tea; butter and jam a few slices of toast.

Not wanting to wake Tom, Harry slowly slipped out of the bed. He retrieved his boxers from the floor and tip-toed from the room. On silent feet, he traveled down the hall, past the dark library and down the staircase with its mounted heads. In the kitchen, he lit the gas lamps. They’d had a particularly enjoyable night and the signs of it remained: wine glasses and cutlery in the sink. He ignored the dirty dishes, loading the oven with quick-burning kindling and filling the kettle with water.

_“Harry!”_

He splashed water all over the floor as he spun around, heart hammering. He was alone in the kitchen and yet the voice had been so clear — almost as if someone had stood right beside him and roared in his ear. And it had sounded like … _himself._

Harry’s guard rose at once.

“Yes?” he asked the empty kitchen.

No reply came. Cautious, Harry set down the kettle and fished out a steak knife from the silverware drawer. He inched to the cellar and peered down the stairs. It had been ages since their last trial. Was this the Carcerem’s newest threat? A disembodied voice?

“What are you doing?”

Harry cried out and jumped again. Tom stood behind him, wearing his dressing gown.

“Don’t _do_ that,” said Harry weakly, a hand over his frantic heart. “ _Jesus._ I thought I heard something.”

Tom looked pointedly at his hand. “And your choice of weapon was a paring knife?”

“It’s not a _paring_ —”

“Might as well be.” Tom stepped up beside him, staring down into the darkened cellar, and all of Harry’s senses were filled and dominated. Suddenly, disembodied voices didn’t matter anymore. He wanted to bury his nose in Tom’s hair and breathe him in. He wanted to run his tongue along the edge of his jaw.

“Do you hear it now?” Tom asked.

“Hear what?” said Harry, half dazed.

“The voice,” said Tom.

“Oh!” Harry snapped back to attention, a blush rising up his neck. Why did he _always_ have to turn red? _Why?_ “No. I don’t hear anything now.”

“What did it sound like?”

Harry hesitated. _Like me_ didn’t seem like a good answer.

“I think I was just hearing things. Old house noises.”

Harry knew from the slightly raised eyebrow that Tom didn’t believe him, but he let it drop.

“Tea?” he said, eyes shifting to the kettle on the stove.

“I was going to make some,” Harry admitted. Against his wishes, he felt the blush spread to his bare chest. He was acutely aware of how close they stood. “I — erm — wanted to surprise you,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but at the man in front of him.

“Really? Well, don’t let me stop you. Upstairs?” he added lightly.

Harry knew exactly what ‘upstairs' would lead to and it was exactly what he’d been hoping for, but he still felt like a fumbling idiot on his first date as he nodded, throat too tight to speak.

 

* * *

 

The cups of half-drunk tea rattled in their saucers on the nightstand as they fucked. The bed’s metal frame banged against the wall with each trust. Kneeling, they were chest to back. Desperate for something to hold onto Harry had gripped the metal bar of the bed’s iron headboard and Tom’s hands covered them, locking them in place. If he could have conjured ropes, Harry was sure he would have.

Tom fucked him fast, a rapid _slapslapslap_ of skin on skin that had Harry delirious, his mouth a silent O. His ignored, throbbing cock ached for release. He tried to wriggle his hand out from under Tom’s, but Tom redoubled his grip, not letting him.

And then, for the third time since starting, Tom’s pace cut in half. Harry bit back a groan of frustration and pleasure. Each time he neared the edge, Tom yanked him back, his thrusts turning to torturous, rolling grinds. Harry hated it and loved it and wondered if it was possible to go insane from too much ecstasy. He rocked his hips, meeting Tom’s every forward sway.

“You’re perfect,” Tom murmured against Harry’s neck. “You’re so perfect.”

They didn’t usually speak during sex, both so focused on the fire tearing through their blood to waste time with talk.

Harry kept rolling his hips, making Tom’s cock rub just _there_ and a moan that sounded embarrassingly close to a whimper escaped him. It sent Tom over the edge, back to the heart-thumping pace of before. Harry’s arms shook with the effort to keep from crashing headfirst into the wall.

“Yes,” he gasped. “ _Tom — fuck — yes — **yes** —_”

Tom’s hands left his. One arm wrapped around Harry’s chest, pulling him flush; the other finally saw to his cock. Five firm strokes and Harry came, hitting the pillow. Stars burst. The room spun. Boneless, his head fell back against Tom’s shoulder. With a thrust that felt impossibly deep, Tom stiffened and Harry felt his insides grow wet. Clutched in Tom’s arms, Harry clenched down on the cock buried inside him. He released and then clenched again. Against his back, Tom shivered.

“Keep doing that,” he warned, “and we’ll just start fucking again.”

Light-headed, Harry laughed. Trapped in Tom’s embrace, they fell backward like a pair of cut trees. They would need to wash the sheets again. Thank god the Carcerem had gifted them two bedrooms.

Tom nuzzled his cheek. “I’ll start the bath.”

Harry kissed him full on the mouth, tasting the tea. How many more times would they fuck before they grew bored? How many more times would they sink into each other’s arms, kissing until breathless, lips tender and swollen, before the thrill wore off?

Harry couldn’t imagine a number.

 

* * *

 

Smiling like a shark, Tom eventually pulled away, striding buck naked out of the room to see to the furnace for their bath. Harry remained immobile on the bed, limbs splayed, mind blissfully blank. The rain, he noticed, had stopped. A slant of sunlight hit the Gryffindor house banner nailed over the bed, turning the yellow threads into gold.

“Harry!”

He sat bolt upright.

“Tom?”

The silence was deafening. On wobbly legs, Harry stood and lurched into the hall.

“Tom?”

He moved toward the stairs but stumbled to a stop before reaching the library. The walls were curling inward, warping, twisting; the floor tilted and buckled under his feet. Harry grabbed hold of a candle bracket for stability. The walls splintered open. He turned to run and came nose to nose with himself.

“WAKE UP!” the double roared.

Harry jerked and brilliant sunlight dazzled his eyes; the air was warm and salty, waves crashing onto the sandy beach. Harry scrambled upright. He’d been lying on his stomach on a blanket. He was wearing swimming trunks. A bottle of wine and sandwiches were tucked inside a basket.

“Harry?”

He turned and found Tom, also dressed for swimming, lounging beside him, an open book cradled in one hand.

“Are you all right?” Tom asked.

“Yeah,” said Harry, feeling dazed. He rubbed his head. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to head back in?”

“No. No, I’m okay.” He had finally convinced Tom to go on a picnic after an incredible amount of cajoling; he wasn’t about to _head back in_. “I must have dozed off.”

Tom smirked. “We _have_ been staying up late.” He leaned toward him, lips brushing Harry’s in a barely-there kiss. “And waking early. And not sleeping at all.”

“You’re an addict.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Laughing, Harry dodged Tom’s kiss. He got to his feet.

“I’m going for a swim. Wanna come?”

“In a minute,” said Tom, leisurely returning to his book.

No one should be as beautiful as Tom. He was a vision of gleaming skin and perfect angles. If Harry didn’t get some distance his knees would give out and he’d never hear the end of it. Leaving his glasses on the blanket, he headed to the water’s edge.

“Harry, stop!”

He stumbled as a wave crashed against his shins.  

“ _Stop!_ ”

Harry blinked hard, trying to understand what he was seeing. Though he heard the seagulls and smelt the brine, though the current tugged at his legs as the wave receded, the ocean was gone. Before him was an icy room with spiked walls. Three people dueled. One was Tom and the other two were … him. As they cast spells at lightning speed, cracks like thunderbolts issuing about the icy cell, Harry looked back over his shoulder. Reclining on the beach, reading his book, sat Tom, but Tom was smaller than he should be, as if he was drifting away … or maybe Harry was the one drifting out to sea …

Except there wasn’t an ocean. Harry was in an endless black landscape; even those icy walls had gone. The three wizards darted and circled each other in an ill-conceived dance. He walked toward them, but they weren’t getting any closer. One of the Harrys held a spear with a curved, sword-like blade of blinding blue. He sent a burst of magic at Tom. Unable to block it, it hit him like a sucker punch in the gut, sending him crashing to the ground, but he tried to get back up, wheezing. His wand had been knocked from his hand. The bladed-Harry advanced upon his twin —

“ _Harry — Harry!_ ”

Tom darted forward as the first Harry swung back his glaive for the killing blow —

Harry felt the heavy _thunk_ of the blade connecting with muscle and bone. He felt the vibration shudder up his arms. The staff was in his hands. The black, empty landscape fell away. He was in an icy room, blood splattering onto a frozen floor.

“No.”

Tom swayed, the glaive embedded in his stomach.

“ _No._ ”

With a yank, Harry pulled the Silence free; he threw it aside. Ashen, Tom fell backward. Harry grabbed him, pressing against the wound in his stomach. “ _No! No — Tom —_ ”

Harry couldn’t stop the blood. It surged over his hands in a flood. His counterpart dropped to his knees beside him. He pointed his wand at the gash and whispered words that sounded like song, but the wound did not close. Harry pressed harder on it, trying to staunch the flow. Tom coughed up blood; his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

“ _No — no. Help!_ ” Harry roared. “Help, please!”

Behind him, people shouted spells on the other side of the icy wall, trying to blast it open, but they would never reach them in time. And then Harry heard a new sound … a sound that resonated deep in his marrow.

Fawkes burst into the air above them in a fiery blaze, piping his eerie sound. He swooped down, wings brushing Harry and his double back. Head bowed, tears dripped off his golden beak, falling onto Tom’s stomach. Harry held his breath. Slowly, the wound closed.

“Tom? Tom?”

But Tom did not wake.

“ _Bombarda!_ ”

With a boom, the wall crumbled open. People clambered through it.

“Tom?” Harry pushed back Tom’s hair, smearing blood onto his forehead. “Tom?”

“Is he …?” Harry heard Ginny whisper.

Fred dropped to his knees and felt Tom’s neck. “He’s alive. We need to get him back.”

Harry stared at the others standing around him like they were a dream. Ron? George? _Fred?_

Ginny snatched up the fallen Silence, gripping it tight and looking at Harry like he was a monster. Fred and Ron gripped Tom tightly and they vanished from sight, the others following suit. Harry’s double grabbed him by the arm. He felt a sharp yank behind his navel. He was banging shoulders with himself and then they were inside a dingy hotel. Fawkes appeared in another fresh burst of fire, perched atop a hat stand and Ron and Fred were lowering Tom onto a thread-bare couch.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” said Fred, checking his pulse again, “but his heart’s steady. I think he’ll be okay.”

Harry swayed and his twin grabbed him, steadying him.

“He’s going to be okay,” said his double, repeating Fred’s words fiercely. “ _He’s going to be okay._ ”

As the words sank in, Harry came more and more to his senses. Like a fog lifting from his eyes, the room grew into clearer focus. The others watched him tensely, their wands held tight as they waited for his spring attack, all save for his counterpart. The other Harry had not drawn his wand. His hands gripped Harry’s forearms, keeping him upright and Harry knew that if he released his hold, his legs would give out and he’d crumple to the floor.

“Do you have handcuffs?” Harry whispered. “Auror issued?”

“Yeah,” said his twin after a pause.

“Put them on me.”

 

**xXx**

 

Tom woke, disoriented. Why was he back in the hotel? Why was he in bed? What had happened to —

“Harry.”

Sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, Harry flashed him a tight smile.

“Hi,” he said in a quiet voice.

Joyous relief surged through Tom. He was back. _Harry was back_. Elated, Tom sat up, ignoring Harry’s alarmed words of “Lay back down; you need to rest,” but then his eyes fell upon the metal wires wrapped around Harry’s wrists, binding him to the chair’s arms.

“Tom, lay back down,” Harry whispered. “Please lay back down.”

Pale, tremors shaking his frame, Harry looked like he was at death’s door and they had … they had _chained_ him?

“POTTER!”

The door opened and the other Harry appeared.

“Hello to you too.”

“Take those off him this instant.”

“No.”

The word had not come from Potter but from Harry. He sat tense in his chair, hands clutching the armrests.

“You don’t need them,” said Tom.

“I do,” Harry disagreed, speaking as if each word cost him a great effort.

“We are not keeping you tied up!”

“How about a compromise?” Potter strode around the bed to Harry. Swishing his wand, the cuffs remained fixed on each wrist, but detached themselves from the chair. “Magic is still blocked and now he’s no longer tied up. Good? Good. If you need me, I’ll be in the hall.” He shut the door behind him.

For a moment, they sat in silence.

“You don’t need them,” Tom repeated, quieter.

Harry didn’t meet his gaze. He looked like he was trying to vanish, shoulders hunched, hands clasped between his knees. He half turned to look out the window and Tom saw tear tracks.

“Harry…”

He reached for him and like he was attached to a string, Harry rose from the chair and fell into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t your fault.”

Harry pulled away. “I almost _killed_ you.”

“The _Horcrux_ almost killed me, not _you_.”

Harry screwed up his face.

“It _was_ me. He got in my head. I — I wanted — I —”

“Harry, look at me. _Look at me_. Do you know how hard it is to break that sort of possession? It’s practically impossible. _And you did it_.” He cupped Harry’s face. “You did it just in time. You saved me.”

Harry broke into fresh tears. Tom kissed them away. He lay back onto the bed, bringing Harry with him, holding him to his chest. Eventually, Harry’s sobs quieted.

Tom rubbed his back. Softly, he said, “When the mind is controlled to such an extent, the consciousness retreats to a place of safety to try to protect itself. Where did you go?”

Harry was silent and then he answered, “The Carcerem. In those last few weeks when I …” He lifted his head and looked directly into Tom’s eyes. “When I realized I loved you.”

Tom’s heart ached. He wanted to kiss him as if kisses could erase the tailspin of the last twenty-four hours.

“Ever since we arrived in this world, all I’ve been thinking about is how quickly I can get us back home because I’ve been terrified of you getting hurt, but in doing so, I _did_ hurt you.”

Unable to speak, Harry shook his head.

“I did,” Tom insisted. “The one person I care for —”

“You don’t have to apolo—”

“I do,” said Tom fiercely. “I let him kiss me. I let him. I’m sorry. I — _”_

His words were stopped by the firm press of Harry lips.

“Stop saying sorry,” Harry whispered. “The person who nearly died doesn’t get to apologize.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“There you go again,” said Harry, finally with a hint of his sarcastic self, “saying shit you’ve got no right to say.”

“You forgive me?” Tom marveled, unable to believe it. This man was inhuman. This man was otherworldly. This man, who held his heart in the palm of his hand, was unlike any other being in the universe.

Harry smiled, small and tired, but with love, with warmth.

“You’re not the only one here who let their anger get the better of them.”

Tom wanted to wrap him up and pretend that every second that passed was not a threat to Harry’s life, but instead, he braced himself.

“The Horcrux.”

“Still here,” Harry replied tensely. “It’s why I need these.” He lifted a wrist, the metal ring glinting. “As long as I can’t do magic, neither can he. I’m not taking them off until we get rid of him. The Basilisk in Hogwarts —”

“Will be exceedingly difficult to reach. If I am anything like my counterpart, Hogwarts will be highly protected.”

“Then Fiendfyre.”

“We already tried that.”

Harry listened, growing paler as Tom told him of the fight in the Sahara.

“I don’t remember any of that,” he said, horrified. “If we can’t get to the Basilisk and if Fiendfyre doesn’t work…”

“We’ll find a way,” Tom promised firmly. “You’re going to be all right, Harry. I’m going to make sure of it.”

Harry nodded shakily.

“Why don’t you get more comfortable?” Tom suggested. “I think there’s a shower in here. I’ll get food. I spotted those Mars bars you like in a vending machine.”

Harry flashed him another smile, but it was weaker than before.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we’ve got three Tom’s running rampant (not counting Voldy) I want to go ahead and say that Silence!Tom was **not** posing as our Tom in the beginning flashbacks. Harry was reliving memories of the Carcerem while his subconscious screamed in his ear. I really loved being able to write those scenes. If you’re curious, they take place between Chapter 11 (aka chapter 10) and Chapter 12 (aka chapter 11) in Of Your Making.
> 
> I’m exploring Horcruxes and possession here. When Ginny was being possessed by the diary, she said that she had entire stretches of time that she couldn’t recall (the times when he possessed her). In Canon, Harry, on the other hand, is never possessed that way with the closest instance being in book 7 when Harry’s lost in Voldemort’s mind after the Bathilda Bagshot incident. In book 5, Voldemort uses his body, but Harry’s still very much conscious of what’s happening. So I decided to let Harry sink into a total possession, like Ginny had been in. Part of this happened because Harry was caught off guard by the Horcrux residing in the Silence. Another reason was from the hurt and shock of witnessing his double kissing Tom. And another still is that Silence!Tom is very strong.


	19. FIFTEEN

As Harry disappeared into the bathroom, Tom stepped out into the hall. Potter was there, leaning against the wall. He passed Tom back his wand.

“He okay?” he asked.

“Better than I could have hoped,” said Tom, shutting the door.

“And you?” asked Potter, looking pointedly at Tom’s bare midriff. All traces of the wound were gone. There wasn’t even a scar. Tom remembered hearing a hair-raising sound of phoenix song before passing out.

“Fit as a fiddle.”

“You lost a lot of blood.”

“I assure you, I’m fine.”

But even as he said it, a violent shiver ran up Tom’s spine, goosebumps erupting.

“Are you okay?” said Potter, noticing. “You look — whoa!”

Potter jumped out of the way just in time as Tom vomited onto the carpet. He’d nearly died. He’d nearly _died_. He had run straight into a glaive with his wand lying on the ground, forgotten.

“ _Fuck._ ”

Legs shaking, Tom collapsed against the door, a twitching hand over his mouth.

Potter steadied him, vanishing the pool of sick with a wave of his wand. “You really should rest. You’re not a god, you know.”

No. He wasn’t. He was … human. So unbearably, painfully human.

“And by the way,” Potter added, “thanks. For saving me.”

“I was saving him,” Tom gritted, furious at how the world spun around him, furious that he was covered in chills. “He’d never forgive himself if he killed you.”

Potter looked startled. “Well … still. Thanks.”

“ _Fuck_.” Tom bent over, his hands squeezing his knees.

“I’m assuming this is your first near-death experience?”

“No,” Tom answered. But it was the first time he’d forgotten his own mortality. It was the first time he’d jumped in the line of fire without a weapon, without a plan. He’d just … reacted. Just as James and Lily Potter had reacted when he’d blasted open the door to their cottage on that Halloween night, leaving their wands behind. Tom had seen it as weakness, but it hadn’t been weakness at all. It had been love.

In love, he had forgotten his greatest fear and leapt right into Death’s claws.

“You sure you’re okay?” Potter pressed as Tom took a deeper breath.

He straightened. “Yes.”

Potter didn’t believe him, but he let it drop.

“Okay. Then we need to talk about your boyfriend. The fact that he wants his magic blocked has me worried.”

“It’s the Silence,” said Tom. He pushed off the door, and on slightly steadier feet, headed down the hall to a vending machine. He suspected the Weasleys had bewitched it to constantly refill with packaged nuts and crisps. As he tapped his wand against the glass over the items he wanted, he explained Harry’s revelation that the Silence had grown entwined with him.

“But Horcruxes can’t affect you if they don’t have physical contact. If we keep the staff away from him—”

“That staff is just a staff,” said Tom, retrieving the food from the shoot. When the glaive had frozen the Fiendfyre, Tom had realized his mistake, everything becoming clear. “What we refer to as _the Silence_ is something else entirely and it’s _inside_ Harry. He’s hoping that by dulling his magic he’ll keep the Silence, and the Horcrux, at bay.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“There’s no reason it won’t,” said Tom, but he hated it. He’d worn those handcuffs before, when he’d turned himself into the Ministry. To have Harry’s magic tamped down — it set his teeth on edge. “When we destroy the Silence—”

“The Silence that’s _in Harry_ ,” Potter clarified. “When we destroy the Horcrux _in him_ , you mean? You realize you’re saying we have to ki—”

“Do that and I will skin you alive.”

Potter stiffened. “By all means, give me a better option.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“This isn’t about you and Harry anymore,” said Potter, growing angry. “As long as that Horcrux is active, _all_ of us are at risk.”

“ _I’ll figure something out_ ,” Tom snarled.

“And if the Horcrux takes over again?”

“It won’t. Harry has it under control.”

Potter’s eyebrows disappeared into his fringe. “Really? Because he looks like a bloke who’s holding on by a thread and believe me, I _know_ that look.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“ _But if it does_ ,” said Potter, unrelenting. “What do we do?”

 

**xXx**

 

Harry stood under the hot stream of water, steam rising up in billows. He kept his eyes closed, focusing on the water pummeling his head and running down his back rather than the Horcrux leaning against the sink, rather than the twisting, gnawing in his gut. Though they’d taken the Silence away that didn’t mean anything. They could send it halfway across the world or — Harry’s stomach clenched — throw it into Fiendfyre, the result would be the same. Harry understood now. The Silence was not a staff. The Silence was him. The staff was merely a conduit for its power and Harry was the producer. It never left him, which meant neither did the Horcrux.

Harry felt uncomfortable in his own skin as everything sank into alignment. They’d thrown the wrong thing into the Fiendfyre. Once again, Harry harbored a shred of soul that wasn’t his. Once again, he was a Horcrux in need of destroying.

The magic-suppressing handcuffs locked around his wrists irritated his skin. He was numb. Numb and agitated at the same time, but Harry wouldn’t take them off. As long as he kept them on, everyone would be safe. 

“You can tell yourself that until you’re blue in the face,” the Horcrux said, “but you’re only delaying the inevitable. It’s always the same with people like you. Emotions strapped to their backs, hearts on their sleeves. Honestly,” he chuckled, “you make it _so easy_ , Harry. I wonder who I’ll have you kill first. Not _lover-boy_. I’ll need to bury you deep before I do that. Maybe one of those Weasleys…”

Harry turned off the water. Dripping, he stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He pretended the Horcrux was not there.

“Ignore me all you want, I know how this is going to end.” The Horcrux leaned close to Harry and whispered, “I’m going to break you, Harry, and when I do, I will kill _all_ of them.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, anger building like a volcano, but he wouldn’t rise to the bait. He retrieved his glasses from the sink and opened the bathroom door. Tom — _his_ Tom, the real Tom — was back, sitting on the bed, waiting for him, the promised Mars bars in hand. He patted the bed.

“Sit with me.”

Harry did. Tom passed him one of the candy bars and Harry, more out of a need to do something with his hands, tore at the wrapping.

“Is he visible to you?”

Harry nodded and Tom looked as if he’d expected as much.

The Horcrux in question was now sitting in the chair by the dresser, one long leg crossed over a knee. He quirked an eyebrow at Harry, smirking.

“Where?” Tom asked.

Harry jerked his head at the chair. Not wanting to give the Horcrux any further attention, he took a bite of chocolate and his hunger hit him like a bulldozer. He hadn’t realized how ravenous he was. Stuffing the rest of the bar in his mouth, he grabbed a bag of crisps.

“I’ve been thinking about a way to keep the Horcrux distanced,” said Tom.

“This will be fun,” said the Horcrux.

“I think he manifests to you in physical form when you’re most stressed,” Tom went on. “It’s the greatest struggle when mastering Occlumency, keeping your emotions compartmentalized.”

Harry knew where this was going and it made him, if possible, even more exhausted. He put the crisps back down.

“You know I’m not good enough at Occlumency.”

“I agree. You’re not suited for it.”

“See?” said the Horcrux. “Even _he_ knows it’s pointless. _Embrace it_ , Harry. I made it pleasant, didn’t I? You liked being in the Carcerem. You can go back. You can live in your memories forever. You can be happy again.”

Harry twitched. He _was_ happy.

“Even now?” the Horcrux breathed. “How can you trust him, Harry? How can you ever possibly after what he did?”

Harry ground his jaw and the Horcrux, like a shark sensing blood in the water, pressed his advantage.

“You know this will never work. You’ve known it all along. You’ve just been fooling yourself. You and _Tom Riddle_? Happily ever after? If you believed that, why didn’t you say yes when he asked you?”

“I’m going to suggest something else instead,” said Tom and it took an exorbitant amount of effort to focus upon Tom’s words, but Harry turned to the man beside him. “When you feel him getting to you, I want you to think of something funny.”

“Funny?” Harry repeated.

“Yes.”

The Horcrux rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe he’s me.”

“Give it a try,” Tom urged.

Not confident, but intrigued, Harry searched for something funny. At once, as if it had been waiting for this very opportunity, a memory from early March leapt into being. It felt like it belonged to a stranger, but it didn’t. It was _his_. His and Tom’s. Harry smiled.

“What are you thinking of?”

“That time you helped me bake three hundred cupcakes for Fleur’s baby shower.”

Tom winced.

“I really want to tell Ron. He’d never believe it.”

“No,” said Tom sharply. “You swore you never would. You _swore_.”

At Tom’s distress, Harry laughed and suddenly, he realized the Horcrux had gone.

“It worked!”

“Wonderful.” Though Tom looked ill.

Was Harry going to let a Horcrux and a kiss ruin what he and Tom had built? Was he going to let that destroy everything they had overcome? Was he going to let it settle over the little time they had left like a black cloud? The Horcrux was right. Harry knew exactly where this was headed and every second he and Tom had was precious.

He rested his hand over Tom’s on the bedspread, his heart both light and aching.

“I promise I will never tell a soul that you had sprinkles on your nose.”

“I did _not_ have sprinkles on my nose.”

“You did,” said Harry, laughing all over again and he felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. He loved this man. He loved this man more than anything in the world. Merlin … the years they could have had. “You were covered. But honestly, there’s no risk because no one would ever believe me.”

Tom’s gaze softened. His thumb rubbed across Harry’s knuckles. “I’ve never been more frightened in my life.”

“Baking cupcakes?”

“No. When I realized what the Silence was. When I thought I’d lost you.”

The levity dissipated.

“It’s my fault that this happened,” said Tom, suddenly angry. “It’s my fault he got under your skin.”

“He was already under my skin,” Harry corrected. “And _I_ was the one who should have realized that.”

“I should have pushed him away,” said Tom bitterly and Harry knew they were no longer talking about Horcruxes. “I should have seen it coming. I should have stopped it before it even started. I’m sorry.”

“I told you to stop apologizing.”

“And I’m telling you that I haven’t said sorry near enough,” Tom said fiercely, his eyes hard. “ _Don’t_ forgive me for this so easily.”

“But I’m going to,” Harry replied. “I’m going to because that’s what you do when you love someone.”

Tom blinked, startled, and a tear escaped his eye. Harry had never seen him cry and it made a fresh surge blur his vision.

“ _Tom…_ ”

Harry embraced him and Tom, crying perhaps for the first time in his life, clutched Harry, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. Smiling through his own tears, Harry pointed out, “I’m supposed to be thinking of funny things, remember?”

Mopping up his face, Tom released him. “Right. Yes. They were unicorn cupcakes, weren’t they?”

Harry laughed out loud and finally, Tom cracked a watery grin. It was time. Time to put his fears in the place where they belonged. He interlaced their fingers and said, “I was thinking November might be good.”

Eyes slightly bloodshot and cheeks still wet, Tom asked, “Good for what?”

“A wedding.”

Tom froze. His eyes widened almost comically. “What?”

Harry grinned.

“You want to?” Tom whispered.

“I do.”

Overjoyed, Tom kissed him and Harry kissed back, but all too soon, Tom stopped it.

“You’re not saying yes because you feel bad about nearly killing me?” he asked shrewdly.

“I _do_ feel bad about nearly killing you, but I’m not saying yes because of that.” He took a steadying breath, gathering the courage to say what he’d been fearing for months, the fear that poked and prodded; the fear that kept him up at night; the fear that had swallowed his tongue when Tom had proposed nearly a month ago. “You remember when we first got here, how worried you were that I’d choose my parents over you?” Harry licked his lips, his mouth dry. “Well, the truth is, I’ve been feeling that way about you ever since Christmas.”

“What?” said Tom blankly.

“Look at you,” said Harry impatiently. “You’re _hot_. Movie star level hot.”

“So are —”

“No,” said Harry, stopping him before he could start, “I’m not. I’m awkward. I’m messy. I don’t own a shirt that doesn’t have a stain.”

“I believe there’s a product for that,” Tom replied, a teasing grin slipping into existence.

“You’re not listening to me,” said Harry. “Don’t you see how out of my league you are? You’re sophisticated and smart and can do magic I don’t even understand. I keep … I keep expecting you to realize this and … move on.”

“Move on?”

“Pick some else.” And there was no lightness in Harry’s voice. It took everything he had to keep it steady. He felt sick to his stomach. He couldn’t look at Tom, and even though his throat was closing in he forced out the words, “Someone who’s more like you. When I saw you and the other me working on the portal I kept thinking, he fits. _He’s_ the better match. What’s Tom doing with me?”

Tom took Harry’s face in his hands.

“I don’t want anyone else. I will never want anyone else. You are everything, _everything_ to me. Nothing and no one can ever change that.”

“Even … even if …”

“You want children?” Tom finished, guessing correctly.

“I know you don’t want kids,” said Harry quietly.

“You’re right. I don’t. But there were many things I didn’t want two years ago.”

Harry was speechless. Was Tom saying what he thought he was saying?

“But it will take planning,” said Tom. “You’d have to be on a very strict diet and there’s always the chance that your body will reject them.”

The smile fell from Harry’s face. “What?”

“The potions,” said Tom, still in that matter-of-fact tone. “The success rates have improved dramatically over the last decade, but it’s still a —”

“I was talking about adoption,” Harry croaked.

“Oh.” A faint blush bloomed in Tom’s hollow cheeks.

“Wizards can …”

“Oh, yes,” said Tom. “It’s not common, but yes.”

Just when he thought he’d heard it all.

“But you want to?”

“ _Get pregnant?_ ” Harry squeaked.

“No,” said Tom, laughing. “I meant, do you want to get married? Really? After everything that’s happened? You really want me back?”

Harry leaned into Tom, kissing his lips, tasting the salt of their tears and nothing had ever been clearer.

“Yes.”

 

**xXx**

 

Harry remained by the vending machine, glaring at Tom’s retreating back as he returned to his room, food in hand. What had he expected? For Tom to bring up _the kiss_? For him to drop the version of Harry Potter he was willing to die for? The version he wanted to live the rest of his life with? Like an itch inside his brain, Harry wanted Euphoria. He wanted it to wash away the monster shredding his insides. He wanted it to wash away the disgust and revulsion at the person he had become. Instead he made a soda clatter out of the slot. He chugged half of it before noticing the warmth in his pocket. Frowning, he pulled out a neatly folded slip of paper that had not been there before. His chest tightened as he took in the all-too-familiar handwriting.

_Let’s talk._

Tom.

Heart-in-throat, Harry’s mind sparked a thousand fantasies: _You were right, Harry. I’m sick of this. Let’s run away. You and me._

The lift dinged behind him. He stuffed the note back in his pocket as Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny emerged. Though they’d never spent a great deal of time together, Harry rather liked them.

“Well?” George asked.

“He’s come round,” said Harry. “He’s a bit shaky, but he’s okay.”

“And the other you?” asked Ron. “Still not attacking anyone?”

“As far as I know.”

“So,” said Fred, rubbing his hands together, “what’s the plan?”

“There is no plan,” said Harry. “At least, not for you.”

All four of them looked stunned.

“But we’ve got You-Know-Who from another world living in our hotel!” said Fred.

“And another Potter who can vanish entire chunks of the country!” cried George.

“They can help us beat the Dark Lord!” said Ron.

“If they wanted to, don’t you think they would have already done that,” said Harry. “Believe me, all they want is to get out of here as fast as they can.”

“But —” Ginny floundered, “they _have_ to help us!”

“Says who?”

“Says you! Says us!”

Harry snorted. He pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted. “I expect my parents will be showing up soon. Let them in, will you?”

“Where are you going?” said Ron.

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Just out,” Harry snapped, stepping into the lift. “Be back later.”

The doors closed on their scandalized faces. Harry refused to feel guilty. What did they expect? For a savior to swoop in and fix all their problems?

Reflected in the metal doors, Neville stood beside him.

“Tom said he’d find a way to separate the Horcrux without killing him.”

“That’s a bunch of rot. I know all about Horcruxes.” When Harry had discovered that was what Tom was, he’d been a fanatic at learning everything. “The only way to separate them without destroying the carrier is if the Dark Lord wants to put his soul back together. Is the Dark Lord likely to do that?”

Neville gave a half-hearted shrug. “He did it in another world.”

Harry glowered. “This _isn’t_ another world. It’s ours. We’re fucked and you know it.”

“You think Tom will run away with Harry and make another portal?”

“Isn’t that what anyone would do?” Harry replied, watching the arrow tick down the floors. “Isn’t that what my parents will do once they find out the truth? No one’s going to kill _perfect, wonderful Harry_.”

A slight crease appeared between Neville’s eyebrows.

“They don’t love him more than you.”

The elevator stopped, the doors dinging open.

“I don’t blame them if they do,” Harry told the phantom beside him. “He’s better.”

 

* * *

 

Harry knew it was not smart to go to Tom. It was, in fact, the most idiotic thing he could possibly do, but he was curious and angry and …

Hopeful.

He stepped into a small coffee shop in Southampton. Nine-thirty in the morning and the shop was packed, though most of the tables were not occupied. The customers stood in a thick pack around the counter, listening to the radio. A severe sounding voice issued from its depths, speaking with the formal, clipped tones of one reading from an announcement. Harry caught the words “Surrey” and “Under Control”. The only person in the entire building who was not alarmed by the Muggle Prime Minster’s speech was the thin, black-haired man sitting by a window, slowly stirring his coffee. Tom’s eyes flicked up the moment Harry entered. It was as if he could see straight through Harry. Straight down to his bones.

Harry strode across the shop’s tiled floor and took the chair opposite.

“Hands on the table,” Tom said in welcoming, interlacing his own fingers over his cup.

Harry placed his hands on the tabletop, his wand in his pocket.

“Tea?”

“No thank you.”

Tom smiled. He rested his chin on his interlaced fingers and seemed content enough to stare.

Growing uncomfortable, Harry asked, “Is Southampton your next target?”

Tom shrugged.

“Maybe. Were you impressed?”

“Vanishing an entire county … where exactly did they go?”

“Does it matter?”

Harry had known for a long time the Dark Lord’s plans to evict the Muggles and put witches and wizards in their place. It took a great deal of effort and time to do so without causing the population to get wind. Muggles still outnumbered them, thirty to one. The only successful takeover to date had been Wiltshire. As the Prime Minster continued his announcement to the ashen and terrified customers, it was clear Voldemort’s cautious days were over. To vanish an entire population in broad daylight without any attempt to hide it … Harry wondered how many more towns and cities his counterpart had been set on visiting before they’d interfered. If they hadn’t stopped him when they had could the Silence have wiped out half of England before teatime? 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” said Tom softly.

Harry fished a sugar packet from its bowl to delay his response. He _shouldn’t_ have. He really, really shouldn’t have.

“But I’m glad you did.”

Harry’s throat constricted, anger swelling that still, after everything, his stomach flipped from such a simple statement.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asked harshly. “Getting your weapon back?”

Tom’s smile never faded. He leaned back in his chair.

“The Silence is already on its way to us. Did you think I didn’t know about your little hide-away?”

Harry went cold. Tom’s smile grew.

“Death Eaters are surrounding the hotel as we speak. Though, I am rather impressed by your sheer audacity.”

Harry sat stiffly. His fingers itched to grab his wand.

“Why call me away if you were about to attack?” he bit out. “What do you want?”

“I want what I’ve wanted since you were fourteen,” Tom answered simply. “I want you dead.”

 

**xXx**

 

Over Mars bars and crisps, Tom got Harry up to speed.

“ _I blew up the house?_ ” A bag of macadamia nuts slipped from his fingers. “Mum? Dad?”

“They got out before the explosion,” Tom assured him.

“And Zola?”

Tom hesitated. “I don’t know.”

It was Hedwig all over again. A friend caught in the crossfire.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Tom reminded him, beginning to sound like a broken record. And Harry knew it wasn’t. He knew it was the Horcrux to blame, but a memory that felt like a half dream kept resurfacing: the Horcrux holding out his hand and Harry taking it.

He felt ashamed and nauseous. Like a sucker punch, Harry remembered what else had been in the house.

“ _The portal._ ”

“I’ll make another.”

“But Fawkes’ ashes … the jaspis —”

“I’ll get more,” said Tom as if they were simply discussing a shortage of milk.

Harry honestly didn’t know how Tom would get more of such rare and classified items, but he kept it to himself.

“Are we in London?” he asked. “I saw Ron and the others, but no one’s explained…”

“We’re in a safe house. Your double set it up. He found out the Weasleys were in trouble and relocated those he could here.” His lips twisted into a smirk at Harry’s stunned expression. “Come now, you’re not _really_ surprised, are you? You really thought _you_ would be a loyal Death Eater?”

Harry’s heart leapt. “Are all the Weasleys—”

Tom shook his head. “Potter told me they were placed in Azkaban.” A line of worry appeared between his eyebrows. “Harry?”

It was as if the Horcrux had wrapped his fingers around Harry’s heart and squeezed. Harry shook it off, forcing up a smile.

“I’m okay.”

Tom cupped his cheek and Harry kissed his palm, wishing so badly for this nightmare to end.

_Soon_ , the Horcrux crooned in the corners of his mind.

A sudden clatter outside the door was their only warning before it flung open and his parents surged into the room. Harry turned vibrantly red. He still only wore a bath towel.

“ _Harry!_ ” His mum engulfed him. “Thank heaven.”

A loud hissing issued from his mum’s coat pocket and to Harry’s delight, Zola’s white head popped out. Hissing so fast Harry only caught fragments, she slithered up his arm and wrapped snugly around his bicep.

“Ginny and Ron told us what happened,” said his dad as his mum released him. “Are you both okay?”

“Yes,” Tom replied, squeezing Harry’s hand.

“They said the Silence possessed Harry.”

Harry shared a look with Tom. “It’s a little more complicated than that. You-Know-Who made it a Horcrux.”

His mum’s face lost all color. “Oh my god.”

“Are you all right?” said his dad.

Tom stood. “The Silence will be dealt with immediately. I’m going to the temple. There might be something there to help me understand its weaknesses. I’d appreciate backup; it might be dangerous. My counterpart will have noticed by now that Harry’s not returned. He’ll be on the lookout for us. He may have Death Eaters waiting.”

His dad nodded. Harry made to stand, but it was his mother who pushed him back down.

“You’re staying put,” she said firmly. “Is this all you’ve eaten? Junk food? Get into bed. I’m making you a hot meal.”

“I’ll be back as quick as I can,” Tom promised. “I’ll be careful.”

“If you think it could be a trap, you shouldn’t go,” said Harry.

“We must find a way to safely remove the Horcrux. The temple’s our only —”

“There will be no need for that.”

Harry shot to his feet as Tom and his parents spun around, wands drawn. Lord Voldemort stood in the doorway.

 

**xXx**

 

Voldemort watched his enemies tighten around the boy with amusement. Did they really think they could keep the Silence from him?

“There is no reason for this to turn violent,” he informed them. “Hand over the boy and I will not kill you. No one is coming to your aid. I have already dealt with the blood traitors down below.”

As he spoke, Bella, Rodolphus and Lucius stepped into view behind him.

The boy turned ashen.

“There is nowhere for you to go,” Voldemort continued, taking a step into the room. “I have blocked Apparition over this building. I’m surprised you didn’t notice, but I suppose you were” — his eyes slowly and openly traveled down the boy’s practically nude body — “ _preoccupied._ ”

 Dressed only in a towel, a faint blush bloomed across Potter’s bare chest and Riddle, livid, stepped further between them, hiding him from view. Bella laughed loudly. The Potters closed ranks and the ninazu on the boy’s arm hissed. He’d wondered what had happened to Zola. Apparently, his pets were not quite as loyal as he’d thought. _No matter_ , Voldemort thought as he drew his wand. There were always a few rotten eggs in the clutch.

“Harry,” Riddle said quietly, not shifting his eyes from Voldemort for a second, “get behind the bed and stay there.”

But Potter didn’t.

“Do you swear you won’t hurt them?”

“ _Harry!_ ”

“If I come with you, do you swear it?” Potter repeated ignoring Riddle, ignoring his parents, ignoring even the spitting snake on his arm.

“You have Lord Voldemort’s word,” Voldemort replied, almost disappointed that the boy was so quick to give up.

Face set, Potter stepped forward but Riddle grabbed his arm, pulling him back.

“You are not going anywhere near him!”

“Tom, let me go.”

“No!”

“You’re not getting killed because of me!” said Potter fiercely. “None of you. _Now_ _let me go_.”

His last words were spoken in Parseltongue, startling Zola and even Riddle. Fascination rose within Voldemort. So that was how he had escaped his Serpent House. Voldemort’s cruel lips curved upward. Such mistakes would not happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occlumency. I’ve always liked Harry’s struggle with it. I like that what’s so hard about it for him is that he has to remove himself from his emotions. And Harry’s nothing but emotions.
> 
> Also, heads up. Just two chapters left! Thank you all so much for reading, commenting and following! We're getting to the end of this angst fest and that happy ending tag still stands.


	20. SIXTEEN

Harry blinked awake, the back of his head smarting from where it had banged against the floor when Tom’s stunner hit. He wondered what those Muggles were thinking now after witnessing a duel in their coffee shop, not that it had lasted long. Tom always was quick on the draw.

And speaking of Tom…

Harry frowned, taking in his old Palace bedroom. He hadn’t been back here since he was seventeen. Tom had tied him against a wall, his arms suspended over his head, wrists secured in glistening ropes. More ropes were wrapped tightly around his legs.

Tom sat on the bed, watching him.

“How did you know I’m what I am?”

Harry tugged on his binds. “You still sore about that?”

“How did you _know_?”

Harry gave Tom a flat glare.

“No one’s magical signature is as identical as yours and the Dark Lord’s. It was obvious.”

“And the location of my locket?” Tom asked, not remotely abashed, sounding, instead, almost impressed. “How did you come upon that?”

“You told me.”

“I did what?”

“A year ago. I asked you, if you could go anywhere in the world where would that be and you said the Sahara. When a Horcrux has been separated from its vessel for a long enough time the Horcrux in question acquires a second sense of its home base. Nothing exacting, but you’ll have a drive to be somewhere in particular for no apparent reason. That’s what _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ has to say on the subject, anyway. I’m surprised you don’t remember that, but I guess you did read it a long time ago. How old are you anyway? The Dark Lord’s never celebrated his birthday. That’s a shame. We could have had Dark Mark cupcakes.”

Tom stood, jaw clenched, but his wand remained out of sight.

“I have no memory of that.”

“You were pretty drunk.”

“I don’t get _drunk_.”

“Hate to burst your bubble, Tom, but you did. Twice.”

Tom’s hand shot out and Harry braced himself for the impact, but his hand slapped the wall next to Harry’s head, long fingers splayed. He leaned close.

“The Dark Lord has gifted me the honor of punishing you as I see fit. _Finally._ I told him to kill you and that Longbottom boy ages ago. I told him you were too much of a risk to keep alive, but as it turns out, he was right all along. You aren’t a risk. You never were.” Tom took another step, pressing his body flush against Harry’s in one long line. “You were prophesied to kill us, you know.”

For a moment, Harry thought he’d misheard Tom.

“What?”

“No one’s bothered to tell you?” Tom’s smile was wicked. “Not even our counterparts?”

Harry’s heart thundered against his ribs.

Tom’s grin widened. “Then let me divulge. A Seer announced that a child would be born as the seventh month dies, born to parents who’d defied the Dark Lord three times and this child would have the power to defeat him. There were two children who it could have spoken of. You—”

“And Neville,” Harry breathed. All the times they’d sat together wondering why the Dark Lord had chosen them to be his wards… “Why not just kill us?”

Tom’s grin turned into a sneer.

“The Prophecy stated you would have power _the Dark Lord knows not_.” He rolled his eyes. “He hoped that power meant you would be the one to wake the Silence and help bring in the new age of the Wizarding World. He had such high hopes for you.”

“I tried to use the Silence two years ago. Why keep me alive if I was Unworthy?”

“We’d put a lot of effort in training you. We weren’t going to just throw all that away because of one failed attempt,” said Tom contemptuously.

“But you never let me try again.”

“Because you weren’t ready.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

“Why am I here?” he asked. “Why am I not in Azkaban?”

“Pass you over to a dementor?” Tom laughed. “No, Harry. I want to kill you personally.”

“Liar.”

Tom gave a little flinch, as if a fly had landed upon him.

“If you wanted me dead you would have done it in the coffee shop,” said Harry. “If you wanted me dead you would have done it years ago, regardless of the trouble you’d get into with the Dark Lord. You could have faked it; could have blamed it on the Order. If you wanted me dead, you would have done it. Stop lying to me and stop lying to yourself! I’m under your skin, Tom, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 Tom’s eyes turned two shades darker, a hint of red making the gray almost purple. In a heartbeat he attacked, pressing his mouth against Harry’s with bruising force — a searing, vicious kiss. The ropes securing Harry’s ankles vanished as Tom pushed him up against the wall. Harry wrapped his legs around Tom’s waist, giving himself better leverage, kissing him back just as feverishly. Tom plunged one hand under his shirt, hoisting it up Harry’s chest, traveling upward to his right nipple and digging in a nail.

Harry bit down hard on Tom’s bottom lip. He jerked back, blood welling. He looked startled, as if he’d never seen Harry properly before. They held each other’s gazes, silently daring the other to act first, but as one, as if synchronized, they crashed together again. Harry ran his tongue along the cut he’d made. Their hips ground. Tom released his wrists and Harry buried his fingers in Tom’s hair, kissing and sucking and grinding, grinding, _grinding_.

Tom carried him to the bed, depositing him on his back. Harry’s breath hitched as Tom’s lips moved downward, working the side of his neck. _Sweet Merlin._ Between their rutting bodies, Tom’s deft fingers undid Harry’s belt.

“T-Tom — Tom — stop —”

He did. Chest heaving, hair a mess, wild-eyed, Tom stopped. Pinning him to the bed, he stared down at Harry.

“I think, one day, we’re going to kill each other.”

“You can’t,” Tom corrected. “Not without the locket and Harry” — his bloody lips smirked — “you’re never going to find it this time.”

Harry’s heart clenched, his fears confirmed. “You moved it?”

“The Dark Lord and I will always choose self-preservation over every” — his hips pushed down against Harry’s pelvis — “thing” — he rocked, hard and slow, making Harry’s breath stutter — “else.”

“That’s not fair,” Harry gasped.

“Who said anything about being fair?”

Harry’s fingers slipped again into the silk of Tom’s hair.

“I guess I’ll need to be more careful,” he whispered.

Harry pressed his fingertips against Tom’s skin, his magic surged to each pad, and dawning realization shined in Tom’s eyes before Harry’s nonverbal Stupefy hit. Tom fell like a sack of bricks on top of him. Struggling, Harry pushed him off.

It wouldn’t take long before he woke up. Harry searched Tom’s pockets and found both their wands. He conjured ropes, securing him to the bed. Even without a wand, it wouldn’t take Tom long to break free.

Casting a Disillusionment Charm over himself, Harry slipped from the room. He had to get back to the hotel. He had to warn them Voldemort was coming. He hoped he wasn’t too late. He ran toward the Apparition Chamber, but turning a corner, he found his way blocked. Draco and his father stood smack dab in the center of corridor, speaking with Bellatrix, Alecto, Amycus, and Rodolphus.

“The Dark Lord wants the blood traitors to remain in the Palace,” Bellatrix was saying. “I imagine we have another stupendous execution in our future.”

“Was Harry—” Draco’s voice caught and he hastily cleared his throat. “Was he captured too?”

“No,” said Bellatrix, disappointed. “Only the other one. His _counterpart_. Snape wasn’t there either. The Dark Lord was pleased, but still … when I find those traitors I will make them wish they’d never defied the Dark Lord.”

Harry didn’t need to hear anymore. He inched away, speeding back down the corridor where he’d come, sprinting past his locked bedroom door and taking a sharp right, darting down a narrow staircase used by the house elves. When the rain kept them inside, he and Neville would take their game of hide and seek to the cellars. Once, their game had sprawled too far, entering the dungeons, and they’d witnessed the sort of torment the Dark Lord bestowed upon those who angered him.

The cold pressed against Harry as he left the cellars behind, the walls growing grimy, the torches sporadic. Not even the house elves ventured this far. At the end of a dark passage, a dementor stood guard. Harry took a great, shaking breath and the cold plunged into his lungs. Fists balled, he walked toward it. 

_“She is just a child! Have mercy! Have mercy!”_

Harry bit back against the bile rising up his throat. He continued walking toward the dementor as his victims screamed in his ears. With each step, the voices grew louder, turning into shapes that crouched on the ground, begging, pleading. Neville stared up at him, shaking and stark-white — _“Harry, please …”_  

The dementor turned its hooded head, sensing him. Harry stumbled. His vision grew misted, his lungs stuttered. The cold choked him, freezing him in place. He’d killed his best friend. His only friend. Harry sucked in a pained sob as the dementor inhaled a rattling breath of its own. It knew he was there and ripe for the feast. From the folds of its tattered, black robes it reached a rotting hand for him and Harry could not move.

Neville — he’d killed Neville.

A familiar hand slipped into his. Blinking back tears, Harry stared in wonder.

“Enough of that,” said Neville kindly. “They need you.”

Harry squeezed Neville’s hand, astounded at how real it felt, but that was okay. He’d rather his madness be so acute that it could conjure Neville in absolute clarity.

Neville smiled. Hand in hand, they stepped past the dementor. The creature hesitated, confused that its powers were not working. Harry turned a corner and the dementor was out of sight. Neville gave him a wink and vanished. Feeling like his heart had swollen three times its normal size, Harry turned, facing a line of bars. He removed his Disillusionment.

“Harry!”

“ _SHHH! Ron, you idiot._ ”

In the cell before him, four red-haired faces stared at Harry through the bars.

“I knew you hadn’t betrayed us!” said Ron in a strangled, exultant cry.

“Harry, is that you?”

Three cells down, his mum and dad reached their arms through the bars.

Harry hurriedly tapped his wand against their locked doors. The moment his parents were free, they hugged him tight and the Weasleys thumped him on the back, but two people were missing.

“Where’s Tom and the other Harry?”

“The Dark Lord took them,” said Ginny.

“What do we do?” asked Ron.

“You’re getting out of the Palace,” said Harry.

“Not until we find Harry and Tom,” said his mum.

“ _I’ll_ find them. I want all of you to get to the Apparition Chamber and _get out_.”

“We’re not leaving you,” said his dad, indignant.

“Neither are we,” said Ron as Fred and George and Ginny nodded.

“Don’t be idiots!” Harry raged in a furious undertone. “You don’t even have wands!”

“What is this?”

Harry whipped around, his wand trained on the group gathered at the end of the corridor: Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Mr. Malfoy, Draco, Amycus and Alecto. Bellatrix stepped forward, her smile wide.

“Lucky thing I thought to check in on our prisoners.”

“Check in?” Harry snorted. “You mean torture.”

“You never had a problem with our little game before,” Bellatrix crooned. “Don’t tell me _mummy_ and _daddy_ have changed your mind?”

“We don’t have to fight,” said Harry. “You can walk away.”

They laughed, save for Draco, who shot his father a nervous glance.

“I’ve always wanted to knock you in your place,” Bellatrix breathed, drawing her wand. “You were never worthy of the Dark Lord’s favor.”

“What’s the matter, Bella?” Harry replied. “Jealous?”

“Crucio!”

Harry erected a shield around his parents and the Weasleys and darted out of the way. Her spell hit the shield with a _crack_.

“Look out!” his mum shouted as Alecto sent a dozen arrows zinging through the air.

Harry whipped his wand and they turned into ribbons, fluttering to the ground.

“Stupefy!” Harry shouted, aiming at Bellatrix, but she jumped out of the way.

“Avada Ke—”

Rodolphus was cut off as Harry jinxed the ribbons on the floor to spring alive, wrapping around his body like a straitjacket. He fell like a tree, face-first.

“How _dare_ you!” Bellatrix screamed.

Harry was forced to erect his own shield as she and Lucius Malfoy advanced, sending a barrage of spells. They left small craters in the stone as they ricocheted off his shield, sparks and smoke filling the small corridor. Harry gritted his teeth, his feet sliding back.

Cackling, Amycus joined the fray.

In a single, fluid movement, Harry lowered his shield, dropped to the ground and roared, “ _Stupefy!_ ” His spell hit Amycus straight in the chest and the wizard toppled over, still wearing his stupid grin.

Rolling, Harry jumped back to his feet, but Mr. Malfoy was quicker. His hex hit Harry’s right knee. His leg went numb. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground.

“ _Avada_ —”

Harry whipped his wand and Bellatrix was yanked up in the air by her ankles. Her wand went flying as her robes cascaded around her thrashing arms.

“You vile—”

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Harry yelled before Mr. Malfoy could hex him again. His wand shot from his hand, clattering into a cell. A heartbeat later, ropes shot from Harry’s wand and twined around Mr. Malfoy. He overbalanced and landed with a heavy thud. Boots squeaking, Alecto ran for it. Harry aimed for her back, but missed, the spell cracking over her head. Time stood still as Harry trained his wand on Draco, the last line of defense.

“Kill him!” Bellatrix screamed, struggling to right herself. “KILL HIM! _KILL HIM!_ ”

“We don’t have to do this,” Harry told Draco, breathing hard. “You can get out of here.”

Draco shot another nervous look at his father.

“Do it, Draco!” Mr. Malfoy shouted from the floor, livid. “He’s a traitor to the Dark Lord.”

But Draco’s hand wavered. The numbness spread up into Harry’s torso. He would need to act soon before it reached his arm, but he remained still, holding his wand steady, waiting for Draco’s choice.

_You’re not like them._ _You act like you are, but I know better._

_“Draco!”_

_“_ KILL HIM! _”_

“ _Stupefy!_ ”

A red beam of light shot down the dark corridor. It hit Draco in the back. Another connected with Mr. Malfoy and Bellatrix. They collapsed in heaps. Amazed, Harry watched as Snape bloomed out of the darkness, leading a group of people. Harry’s shield dissolved and his parents and the Weasleys rushed forward.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked as Snape helped him stand.

“Mrunog Gudar saw your parents being brought in,” Snape answered, seeing to his leg. He poked it sharply with the tip of his wand and feeling returned to it. “He contacted Arabella Figg and she passed the message along.”

Harry recognized most gathered as Order of the Phoenix rebels: Alastor Moody, Rubeus Hagrid, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Aberforth Dumbledore, but there was also a bushy-haired girl his age who Harry had never seen before. Even more startling, none of them looked at Harry as if he was their enemy.

 

**xXx**

 

Voldemort Disapparated from the hotel, taking Harry with him. Harry didn’t need to ask where Voldemort had brought him. He recognized the fire-lit chamber instantly. He’d been strung up against that wall and tortured nearly three weeks ago, his mind shredded and splayed open. He yanked his arm free from Voldemort’s grasp.

“What are you going to do to them?” he demanded. His parents, Tom, Ron, Ginny, Fred and George, even Zola, locked in a box, had been left behind in the hotel, bound and disarmed.

With a flick of Voldemort’s wand, the towel wrapped around Harry’s hips transformed into sleek, black robes.

“As long as you comply, I will hold my word. They will not be harmed.”

Voldemort moved toward him and Harry retreated. He bumped into a winged armchair.

“Your wrists.”

Harry hesitated, hating himself and hating Voldemort. Gritting his teeth, he held out his hands. Two taps of wood on metal and the handcuffs fell to the floor. Like a rush of blood, Harry’s magic surged back to his fingertips.

“Are you ready to return to our cause?” Voldemort asked.

Harry didn’t know what Voldemort meant.

“What cause?”

“Eradicating the Muggles.” At Harry’s startled expression, Voldemort added, humored, “Yes, of course. You don’t remember. An unfortunate side effect of Horcrux possession. I will need him to take control again before sending you off. I’ll grant you a few moments to get yourselves sorted.”

He departed, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Cold sweat ran down Harry’s back. He wheeled around and said to the Horcrux sitting in the chair, “What is he talking about? What did you do?”

“Oh, are we speaking again?”

Harry’s nails bit into the chair’s fabric. “ _What did you do?_ ”

“ _We_ , Harry, removed them. Erased them. Vanished them away.”

“Vanished them where?”

The Horcrux shrugged, indifferent. “I hardly see why that matters.” He stood. “You seem distressed. Let me help you with that.”

He reached out his hand for Harry’s arm and Harry reacted instinctively. He threw a punch, but his hand did not connect with flesh. He tripped forward, falling straight through the Horcrux. He landed on ice-cold ground. It was pitch-black, as if every light in the world had been snuffed out. Had he gone blind?

The Horcrux chuckled.

_I’ll help you see._

And the Silence was in his hand even though Harry had not summoned it. Its curved blade glowed, not revealing the room, but an emptiness that stretched on and on and on for eternity.

Nothingness.

Shoes polished, the Horcrux towered over him.

“Why are we here?” said Harry, scrambling to his feet. “Why did you bring me to Nothingness?”

“Is that what you call it?” said the Horcrux, looking about curiously. “I assure you I had nothing to do with this. _You_ brought us here. I go where you go, remember?”

The same simpering smirk, the dark clothes, the essence of absolute confidence — _Murder in his eyes. Violence in his smile_. In the Carcerem, Tom had looked just the same before everything changed. Harry had nearly forgotten that look.

He gripped the Silence and turned his back upon the Horcrux, walking blindly into the Void. He could feel the Horcrux roll his eyes.

“You’re avoiding the inevitable, Harry.”

Harry did not slow his pace. He walked on soundless feet, eyes shifting left and right. Those dreams had never been dreams; he _had_ traveled to Nothingness which meant…

Harry couldn’t help but feel that his life was stuck on a loop, that every road he traveled always ended the same way: a long walk in the dark, straight into Death’s open arms. He hoped Tom would forgive him.

Something white in the corner of his eye made his breath hitch. He froze, heart pounding —

But it wasn’t the Leech.

Harry frowned. They were … fireflies. Hundreds. Thousands. They circled him. One touched his finger and it was as if a great, billowing wind struck him square in the face. The firefly wasn’t a firefly at all. It was a person. Harry couldn’t explain why he was so sure of this or why he could picture her so vividly: pig-tails, blond, ladybug backpack. Another touched his right ear — scotch and cigar smoke; walks in the park and Cornish pasties. Harry reached for them, knowing who they were. The Muggles the Horcrux had made him vanish. He’d put them _here_.

Could he put them back?

“What do you think you’re doing?” the Horcrux asked as Harry gripped the Silence tighter.

He didn’t know _how_ to do it, but he hadn’t known how to vanish them either.

“ _Harry_ ,” the Horcrux said in warning.

Harry ignored him. The Silence glowed brighter and Harry listened to its song, willing the Muggles to hear it too. They gathered thicker around him until he felt that he stood in a living cage of light. The song reached such a pitch that it made Harry’s teeth ache, but he let it build, urging them to go back, go back, _go back_ —

The song stopped. The pinpricks of light vanished. In the sudden quiet, Harry’s ears popped.

And then invisible fingers closed around his heart. Harry gasped; he dropped to the ground as the Horcrux squeezed.

_You are such a **nuisance.**_

“Ah!” Struggling to breathe, Harry tried to push him back but the Horcrux dug in his nails. Just as his vision tinged black, the Horcrux released him and Harry heaved lungful after lungful.

Above him, the Horcrux glared.

“You can’t stop me, Harry.”

Shaking, Harry lifted his head. “I know.”

The Horcrux looked pleased.

“ _I_ can’t stop you.” Harry closed his fingers around the Silence’s staff. “But it can.”

Confusion crossed the Horcrux’s face and then he heard the Leech as it wheezed, stumbling and crawling, its empty eye sockets trained upon Harry.

The Horcrux took a hasty step back from the Leech, revolted. “What—”

“It’s called a Light Leech,” Harry explained as the Leech drew nearer, dragging itself along the ground. “And it eats magic.”

Before the Horcrux could stop him, Harry held the Silence out for the Leech and its grasping, twitching fingers closed around the razor-sharp blade. The Horcrux screamed as the Leech ate, drawing in the Silence’s magic, drawing in the Horcrux, drawing in Harry.

The Horcrux’s anguish pierced straight through him, but Harry screwed up his face, his arms shaking with the effort to hold the Silence steady. The wooden handle burned hot under Harry’s hands, vibrating violently as the Horcrux screamed and screamed. The Leech opened its gaping mouth even wider, its empty sockets burning with hellfire. It grew like some nightmarish balloon, doubling, tripling, quadrupling. The Silence flickered and dulled and it felt like one of Harry’s own bones breaking as a thin crack appeared along the blade. The Horcrux vanished and still the Leech drank.

“ _No_ ,” Harry gritted, sweat falling into his eyes as a frigid, biting wind whipped up around them. “I’m — not — dying — here.”

He twisted his wrist, slicing the Leech’s hand where it gripped the glaive. It released him and Harry felt like a rope around his neck had snapped free. The wind was a tornado around them. The Leech was a giant. A monstrous hand reached for him, but Harry knew what to do. He slammed the blunt end of the staff straight into the ground and the world broke open. 

 

**xXx**

 

With a jolt, Tom jerked back to consciousness.

“Harry! _Harry!_ ”

He got to his feet and lurched forward, banging face-first into an invisible barrier. Heart thundering, he ran his hands over it. An invisible wall cut a comfortable and lavish room in two.

“Harry!” he roared, pounding on the barrier. He’d let Harry go. _He’d let Harry go._ “HARRY!”

“You are absolutely astounding.”

On the other side of the chamber, Voldemort moved into view.

“Where’s Harry? What have you done with him?”

“He is perfectly well. I take very good care of my Horcruxes.” Voldemort stepped up to the barrier, studying Tom as if he was an alien. “I keep trying to understand it. Why would you ever sink so low? Why would you abandon all that you’ve fought for? All that you’ve worked toward? I can understand lusting after the boy, but to renounce who you are? I am baffled.”

“It was easy,” Tom answered. “I chose him. And I will _always_ choose him.”

Voldemort looked disgusted.

“You’ve become so _weak_.” He spat the word like a curse. “I had wanted to kill you myself, but this is far better. I’d rather watch you waste away. Go ahead and take your time. After all, I have all of eternity.”

“My Lord.”

Voldemort turned as Alecto Carrow stood in the doorway, gasping for breath, clutching a stitch in her side.

“My Lord — the dungeons —”

Alecto scurried from his path as, robes billowing, Voldemort swept from the chamber. Shooting a terrified look at Tom, she hurried after her master.

Tom pressed his hands upon the barrier. The magic under his palms was magic he knew all too well. He closed his eyes and focused harder than he’d ever done in his life.

A shock wave shook him, but he dug deeper, pressing each fingertip — each nail — against the invisible wall. Spider web cracks appeared, spreading and multiplying. Tom gritted his teeth and pushed harder.

He wouldn’t lose him. _He wouldn’t lose him._

His magic roared in his ears, sizzling along his skin. The wall shattered and Tom fell forward. He ran, charging through the door and into a gleaming, marble corridor. He spun on the spot as distant shouting caught his notice.

_Harry._

It didn’t matter that he didn’t have a wand. He’d fight Voldemort with his bare hands. He took off down the corridor, after the voices, but he’d only gone ten paces before the floor shook with the violence of an earthquake. He caught himself, staring as the marble floor cracked open, deep gouges splintering up the walls.

“Harry!” Tom yelled. “Harry, where are you?”

To his left, the wall splintered as if giant pummeled it with its fist. Tom jumped back, covering his face as stone and wood exploded outward. He was showered in dust and mortar, his ears ringing. A dark, powerful, monstrous energy burst over him.  His mouth fell open. The wall now contained a huge crater and it grew by the second, expelling an inky, bloody, crackling smoke that felt unnervingly _alive_. He’d felt such energy once before, but that had been at Stonehenge.

Tom tried to make sense of what he was seeing — who had opened a portal? — but the answer came immediately as Harry, with the Silence clamped tight in one hand, shot from the hole’s depths as if he’d been flung. He hit Tom, toppling them both.

“ _Harry—_ ”

“Get up! Get up!”

With his free hand, Harry yanked Tom to his feet, pulling him away from the hole in the wall and Tom saw what they were fleeing. More monstrous than the last time they’d encountered it, the Leech clawed its gargantuan body out from the swarming blackness, barely able to fit in the corridor.

“Harry — how —?”

“I went to Nothingness,” Harry explained, panting as they sprinted. “I got the Leech to eat the Horcrux.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I was able to break free,” Harry went on as the Leech struggled after them, the walls buckling and crumbling around it.

“Lord General!”

Alerted by the sounds, Yaxley and Dolohov had entered the corridor. They stared agape as Tom and Harry barreled past them.

“Get out of here!” Tom shouted, but he needn’t have bothered for the moment they saw the Leech, they turned on their heels, scrambling after Tom and Harry.

Harry skidded to a stop as their corridor dead ended. Yaxley and Dolohov dove into a side chamber, sealing the door.

“Here!” A narrow, half-hidden staircase was to their right and Tom pulled Harry into it as the Leech leapt upon them. Its body slammed into the opening, but it could not fit. One long arm snaked after them, its nails leaving gouges in the stone. Tom felt its fingertips brush his back. Harry yanked Tom past him and swung the glaive like an ax, striking the Leech’s grasping hand. It shrieked, its rattling scream of rage making the building shake worse than ever. Together, tripping over their own feet, they stumbled down the remaining steps and burst out onto another corridor. Unlike the others, this corridor’s walls were made of mirrors.

“ _Look out!_ ” Harry roared.

Tom hadn’t even heard the incantation. He hadn’t even seen the flash of green. Harry shoved him out of the way and the Killing Curse hit the glaive’s flat blade. The Silence rang like a gong.

On the ground, Tom was shell-shocked. “You can block the Killing Curse?”

Harry looked just as stunned. “Apparently.”

At the end of the mirrored-hall Voldemort’s face contorted in fury. He attacked, sending a barrage of spells that turned the corridor into a spectrum of light. Harry blocked them all, the Silence glowing brighter with each spell that struck its blade.

But the Leech was making headway, the walls giving way as it forced its way to them. Tom jumped to his feet and yanked Harry back just as the Leech exploded out of the stairwell.

Tom wrapped his arms around him, protecting Harry from the explosion, but as glass shards fell around them Tom saw that it was again Harry who had saved him. They were encircled by a shield, the Silence humming.

In the center of the hall, between them and Voldemort, the Leech towered, each spike along its spine long enough to skewer, its arms dragging along the ground, its head brushing the ceiling.

“What is this?” Voldemort demanded, staring upon the Leech in horror. “What have you done?”

Tom knew how this was going to end. He knew from the Leech’s twitching fingers. He knew when Voldemort shouted “ _Avada Kedavra!_ ” and the spell had no effect against the Leech’s hide.

Harry made to rise — to help — but Tom grabbed his wrist and held him back. The Leech was upon Voldemort faster than a lighting strike, his spells only adding strength to the monster, just as they had done for the Silence. They were one in the same, Tom realized, this abominable creature and the weapon in Harry’s hand. Power consumed power.

Tom watched as the Leech closed its fist around his counterpart, lifting Voldemort into the air.

“Avada Kedavra! _Avada Kedavra! AVAD—_ ”

The Leech released him. Lord Voldemort fell to the ground, dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter next week! Hope everyone’s prepared. You might need to buy some tissues.


	21. SEVENTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who am I kidding? I can't wait a whole week.

Tom watched as Voldemort struggled in that … that … _thing’s_ hold; he watched as Voldemort fell to the ground in a lifeless heap and he felt that he was full of needles.

Dead.

How could Voldemort be _dead_? Nothing could kill him. Nothing.

Tom staggered back, breaking into a run. All the anger he’d felt upon waking to find himself tied down to Harry’s bed … all the rage at being outsmarted vanished at the sight of himself _dead_.

He ran, ran like Death itself was charging after him. He sprinted around a corner and plowed straight into Avery. They crashed to the ground.

“Lord General!” Avery was saying. “Lord General, we’re under attack! Potter’s broken the prisoners loose. Snape’s—”

Tom yanked Avery’s wand from his grasp and jumped back to his feet.

“Lord General? Lord General!”

But Tom kept running. He shoved Death Eaters out of his way, stunning and killing any that were not quick enough to leap clear. He burst out into the sunlight and with a silent twist, Disapparated.

 

xXx

 

The Palace was crumbling, shuddering from an earthquake that would not stop. Backup must have been called for Death Eaters Harry recognized from his own world surged into the hall only to skid to a stop, scrambling in retreat as the Leech barred down upon them.

“Harry!”

He and Tom spun around. His heart leapt. Running to them from the other end of the corridor were his counterpart, his parents, Ron, Fred, George, Ginny, Snape, Hermione, Aberforth, Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hagrid —

“Bloody hell!” Fred exclaimed.

“We have to get everyone out,” Harry explained. “Magic doesn’t work against it. You’ve got to get far away from here!”

“Harry and I’ll take care of the rest,” said Tom.

Harry turned to him to argue, but Tom silenced him with a glare.

“I am _not_ leaving you. Don’t waste your breath trying to convince me otherwise.”

“The whole place is coming down,” said the other Harry. “I’m going back for Draco.”

“You’ve got to be _kidding_ me!” Ron roared in exasperation.

“Are you going to help me or not?” his double shouted, already running back form where they’d come.

Growling, Ron did, along with Hermione and Hagrid and Snape.

“Harry,” said his dad, desperate as the ground buckled beneath them, “are you sure we can’t—”

“GO!”

They fled. Harry imagined every exit would be choked, every fireplace stormed. The Leech swiped at the Death Eaters as it tried to follow them, but it had grown too large to leave the corridor. It looked horrific. Horrific and ridiculous, like a child stuffed inside a dollhouse, reaching its long arms around the corners.

Harry pointed the Silence at the Leech’s back. He listened to its hum. He knew what to do.

“Hold my hand.”

Tom took it. His spell hit the Leech, and unlike all the others from Voldemort and the Death Eaters, this one hurt. It flinched like it had been stabbed. It whipped around its ugly head, bellowing murder.

“Whatever you do,” said Harry as the Leech left the Death Eaters behind, heading for them instead, “do not let go of my hand.”

Tom’s fingers squeezed in reply.

The Leech was upon them, its mouth large enough to swallow them whole. The Silence glowed so bright it engulfed them, washing everything out. The Palace fell away and the rushing of the Void — of Nothingness — filled Harry’s ears. He knew what to do. He pushed the Leech down, down into the Void’s heart. It clawed at him, screamed at him, tried to grab hold of him, but Harry was made of Nothing. The world was made of Nothing. Nothing was the Void’s heart and Harry dragged the Leech deep inside it, so deep it too would be Nothing. He could feel the Leech dissolving and Harry grew lightheaded. Weightless.

A faint tug on his … arm? … drew his notice. It happened again. Like a string tied around his finger … fingers … Tom’s fingers.

He was not Nothing. He was Harry.

_I remember you. I remember. Hold onto me._

But Tom’s fingers were slipping. Harry tried to get a better grip — _Hold onto me!_ _Hold_ — but Tom was gone.

 

**xXx**

 

Like the flip of a switch, the impenetrable darkness vanished, replaced with the bright lights of …

The Headmaster’s chamber? Why was he in Hogwarts? Where was Harry? Tom turned and froze, his entire body icing over.

Voldemort stood by the fireplace, half turned away from Tom.

What was this? Tom blinked his eyes hard. Voldemort was _dead_. Was he hallucinating? Salazar — had he been flung in _another_ world? But from how Voldemort took zero notice of him, Tom didn’t think that was the case.

He cleared his throat experimentally.

Voldemort did not react. He could not see Tom. He could not hear him. It was as if he’d fallen inside a memory.

Well, he had no use of this place. He turned for the door, intent upon finding Harry, but something over the fireplace caught his eye. Tom turned back and moved closer to better see it. Resting upon the mantelpiece was a skull. Voldemort’s eyes left the crackling fire; he lifted his hand and brushed a thumb across the skull’s forehead, a vicious smile on his face.

Tom inhaled sharply. He knew the truth like he knew his own name: the skull was Harry’s.

 

**xXx**

 

Tom’s hand slipped from his and everything lurched to a stop. Gasping, Harry spun in a circle.

“Tom? _Tom!_ ”

He was alone, inside the same crystal he’d dreamed of. Panicking, Harry tried to think. He stared at his countless reflections, searching for …

_Yes!_

Harry spotted a black-haired figure in the distance in one of the crystal’s panels. He plunged through it and found himself in a cottage that was much like their own in Ottery St. Catchpole, but it was far messier. Directly opposite him, hanging on a wall, was a large family portrait. It showed the black-haired man, but it wasn’t Tom. It was Harry. He was older. One arm was around Ginny’s waist, the other held a young boy against his hip. Ginny cradled a baby and between them grinned another boy, his front tooth missing. Harry’s heart pounded. More pictures hung around the family portrait: a picnic in the park; petting baby unicorns with Hagrid; birthdays; Christmas —

“Get back here!”

Harry jumped at the sound of his own voice.

“Noooooo!” squealed a child.

“Gotcha!”

Harry stepped around a doorway and found himself playfully tickling two cackling boys. They looked no older than eight.

“Oh, no! You’ve got me!” his older self cried in defeat as the boys teamed up, all three of them rolling on the ground.

“Me too, me too!” The youngest in the pictures charged into the throng, as red-haired as —

Gripping a chair for support, Ginny was doubled up with laughter.

The Potters didn’t notice him. They showed no inkling that someone observed their merriment. 

_Harry!_

_Tom._

Harry turned.

“Tom!” he shouted, leaving the family behind. “Tom!”

He broke into a run. The world shifted around him, turning cloudy and muddled. Half-formed shadows moved past him, their voices as disjointed as an out-of-tune radio.

“Tom!”

“Harry?”

They saw one another at the same moment, two flesh and blood bodies in a sea of ghosts. As one, they ran into each other’s arms. Tom swept him up and Harry hugged him tight and the ghosts turned to mist, twining around them.

 

**xXx**

 

Mrs. Figg’s house was as full of cats as it was people. You could hardly move without treading on foot or tail. The Palace had been destroyed. Voldemort was dead. In the two days before their departure, Harry witnessed numerous gatherings in Mrs. Figg’s kitchen, so packed with Order supporters that they spilled out into the halls. The pure-blood reign had been deeply weakened and the Order needed to act quickly to regain control of the Ministry. Harry spied Cornelius Fudge nervously twirling his bowler-hat as he sat next to Amelia Bones, looking as formidable as ever, and smack dab between them, the Muggle Prime Minister. Every passing hour brought more people as news spread: pure-bloods, half-bloods and Muggle-borns who’d been safely relocated to safer lands, but the best arrivals appeared a day after Voldemort’s fall. Freed from Azkaban, the Weasleys burst through the front door. The celebration lasted for hours.

 

* * *

 

“Ready?”

Harry opened his eyes. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he nodded. Tom offered his hand, helping Harry to his feet. He’d been practicing whenever he could. He was confident now.

“Come on, Zola. Time to go home.”

As she slithered up his arm, Harry saw something through the window. He pushed it open and he and Tom stepped back, allowing Fawkes to swoop inside their small bedroom. He landed on the bed and in his golden beak were two wands. Tom took them. Harry’s heart was so large he could hardly speak.

“He found them?”

Smiling, Tom passed him the holly.

Fawkes happily ruffled his feathers, black eyes bright.

 

* * *

 

Out in Mrs. Figg’s walled-in back yard, they said their goodbyes. For once the house was less occupied, most of the Order out working to restore peace, but his parents and his counterpart were there. As Harry hugged his dad and then his mum, he felt nothing but gratitude for being given such a gift.

“Don’t keep you and Tom a secret anymore,” his mum urged, hugging him tight. “You tell the other us the moment you get back, you hear me?”

Throat tight, Harry replied, “I think they may already know.”

She beamed, tears welling, and hugged him again. As Tom and his dad shook hands, Harry moved away, giving them space. He joined his counterpart, who stood a short distance away.

“Have you heard from him?” Harry asked quietly.

His twin shook his head.

“He won’t stay hidden,” Harry assured him. “Tom never does.”

“Not when it comes to us,” said the other Harry with a small, half teasing smile and then he looked uncomfortable. “I never apologized for jumping on Tom like I did. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did that to you. Tom tried to stop me. It wasn’t his fault. It was mine. I was sick of hurting and I just wanted to hurt someone else. I’m sorry. I wish I could take it back.”

“I get it. It’s okay,” said Harry. “I actually understand better than anyone.” He held out his hand and with a look of amazement, his double took it. “Take care of yourself, Harry.”

“Yeah,” said his counterpart. “You too.”

At that moment, Fawkes flapped down from the window and perched on the other Harry’s shoulder, startling him.

“I think he likes you,” said Harry.

His counterpart opened his mouth to speak but just then Lily Potter flung herself upon Tom, hugging him like a son, sobbing.

“You said yes, didn’t you?” said his double, that teasing smile rising up again.

Harry nodded.

“When’s the date?”

“We haven’t set one, but we’re thinking about November.”

After another round of goodbyes, the groups pulled apart. On a patch of grass, Harry and Tom clasped hands as his parents and his other self moved back to watch, Fawkes still perched on his shoulder. Harry squeezed Tom’s hand, sharing a smile, and Zola, wrapped snugly around Harry’s forearm, flicked her tongue. He held out his right hand. The Silence bloomed into life. He knew what to do. He knew the way home.

 

**xXx**

 

The spell worked. One minuet he and Harry were outside a stone cottage in the sunlight, the next they were inside their Peruvian Suite. Harry doubled up, hissing in pain.

“What is it?” Tom asked at once.

Harry shook his right hand, wincing. “I’m fine. Just a burn.” He studied his palm, his eyebrows knitting. “The mark’s gone. I think” — he ran his hand over his chest — “I think the Silence is gone too.”

“Interesting,” said Tom. “Maybe it can only stay in that world. I wonder why that would be.”

Harry didn’t look remotely crestfallen to have lost the weapon nor curious as to why it had left him. Zola tasted the air curiously.

“Since we’re back,” Tom began, pulling Harry closer, “maybe we should celebrate before checking out. You wouldn’t mind giving us half an hour alone, would you Zola?”

Zola cocked her head. “Alone to do what?”

Harry laughed just as a woman emerged from the bedroom. She let out a piercing shriek. Speaking in rapid Chinese, she dove back into the bedroom as her husband, speaking just as fast, demanded to know what they were doing in their room.

It took thirty minutes to calm the alarmed couple down and another thirty to explain to the hotel’s manager why they had not checked out of their suite yesterday. Harry recovered their luggage and Tom acquired a Portkey to take them home. They met up in the Floo Chamber.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to see more of Peru,” said Tom. The relief of being back in their own world, safe and sound, was beginning to wear off and Tom couldn’t help but feel irritated at how poorly his birthday surprise had gone.

Harry slipped his hand in Tom’s.

“We’ll be back. There are a lot more vacations in our future.”

Tom’s stomach flipped at the simple, matter-of-fact statement. _Their_ future.

 

**xXx**

 

Harry suspected Ron and Hermione would be at their cottage, torn between rage and panic that they were not home yet, and he was not disappointed. The moment the Portkey zoomed them to their living room, they were upon them.

“Why didn’t you send word you’d be late?”

“We’ve been worried sick!”

“Why are you smiling like that?” asked Ron, unnerved by Harry’s beaming face.

“I’ve missed you,” said Harry simply.

“Harry … is that a ninazu in your pocket?” asked Hermione, alarmed.

“How was Peru?” asked Ron.

Tom caught Harry’s eye and sighed. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged confused looks and Harry, setting Zola down to explore her new home, said, “You two are never going to believe this.”

 

* * *

 

Hermione and Ron stayed through four rounds of tea, listening to Tom and Harry share their adventures in another world. The more they talked, the more outrageous it sounded. Harry wondered if his life would ever be normal. Even that glimpse he’d stolen of a Harry from yet another world as he play wrestled with his children — was his life normal? As night came and he and Tom readied for bed — their own, wonderful, wonderful bed — Harry climbed in next to him and said, “When I lost you in Nothingness, I saw something.”

“You did?”

Harry told him about Ginny and a house full of children.

Tom’s jaw tightened slightly. “I saw something, too. I saw myself at Hogwarts. I had won the war. You were dead. Seeing you like that —” Tom couldn’t go on and Harry remembered how panicked Tom’s voice had sounded, screaming his name.

Harry shifted on the bed, climbing onto Tom’s lap, straddling his hips.

“Let’s get married,” he whispered. “Tomorrow.”

Tom’s eyebrows shot up. “Tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to wait. I want to marry you now.”

Tom smiled slow and wide. “As much as I would love that, I know you’d regret not having everyone there. We should at least give them the opportunity to decline.”

Harry laughed, tears pricking his eyes.

“Next week,” said Tom. “Next Saturday, we’ll be married.”

Harry’s heart could have been made of sunlight.

“Next Saturday,” he agreed. “I’ll tell everyone.”

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you’re getting married today!” Hermione squealed for the hundredth time.

Honestly, Harry couldn’t believe it either. His stomach fluttered and swooped as if it contained a thousand snitches. He couldn’t stop grinning. Everyone had leapt at the challenge of organizing such an impromptu wedding and Harry was staggered by the result.

“It doesn’t have to be much,” he’d told them only for Ron to burst out laughing and Hermione and Ginny and Mrs. Weasley to share a ‘he really is an idiot’ sort of look.

On the grassy knoll behind his and Tom’s cottage, a stunning marquee had been erected, the underside of the tent covered in silver flowers and vines. By twilight, the flowers would glow like lanterns, or at least, that’s what Neville had told him. Bill and Charlie were levitating white chairs for the guests beneath it and as Harry watched from his window, he saw a troop of waiters and musicians arrive. Tom was not home.

“He _still_ hasn’t told you where he’s taking you on the honeymoon?” asked Hermione.

Harry shook his head. All week Tom had been vanishing for hours at a time, working on something special.

“He likes surprising me.”

Hermione looked amazed. “Not in a million years would I have thought that _Tom Riddle_ would be a hopeless romantic. Ron should take notes.”

Time galloped. One moment, Harry was trying to console Zola as she hid under their bed, nervous from all the strange smells and loud noises, and then, practically in the blink of an eye, he was dressed in his wedding robes; he was standing beneath a sky of stars, standing before a throng of people — the Weasleys, Hermione, Hagrid, Luna and Rolf, Neville and Hannah, Dean, Seamus, Andromeda and Teddy, his old professors, Kingsley, Robards, and more. So many more. But they could have been worlds away as Harry stared into Tom’s eyes. As they traded rings, as they kissed and fireworks exploded overhead, showering them in gold, Harry did not fear the future. They would walk its unpredictable road together, he and Tom, hand in hand.

 

**xXx**

 

It was not until Midnight that they were able to get away. Tom was light-headed on Champagne. He was light-headed on happiness. If he got any more light-headed he wouldn’t be able to safely Apparate.

“It’s time to go,” he whispered in Harry’s ear.

Radiant. That was the only word he could think of to describe Harry. Radiant.

“Okay,” he said. “Give me a sec.”

Tom didn’t let him go without kissing him first. Grinning, Harry darted into the crowd to find Granger and Weasley and wish them goodnight. When he returned he was even rosier than before with confetti in his hair. Tom wrapped his arms around him.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going?” Harry asked.

Tom smirked. “Close your eyes.”

“Seriously?” said Harry, laughing. “You are impossible.”

But he acquiesced and Tom, holding him close as the crowd waved and cheered, Apparated to another house, far, far away from Ottery St. Catchpole.

“Okay,” Tom whispered. “You can look now.”

Harry did and shock covered his face. He stared up at the gleaming, golden design on the ceiling, runes spiraling across the plaster like sparks from a wand.

“How — how did —”

“I made it as close to the Carcerem as I could,” said Tom.

He watched Harry take in the sitting room. It was a woven mesh of Gryffindor and Slytherin, just as it had been inside the Carcerem. Leaning against a wall stood Tom’s replica of the Mirror of Erised. It by itself had taken him a full day to get right. A stunned smile on his face, Harry ran out of the room and into the foyer and across the hall to a small kitchen.

“It’s wood-fired!” he exclaimed.

Breathless, Harry reappeared in the hall and took in the long staircase with house elves mounted to the wall.

“Those aren’t really…”

“Transfigured marbles,” said Tom promptly.

“Where are we?”

“On a small island, two hundred or so miles off the coast of Morocco. It’s mine,” Tom explained. “I took possession of it when I was still at Borgin and Burkes thinking it might be useful one day but I never used it until after the Carcerem. You wanted to know where I’d vanished to in those three months. I came here. The roof had practically caved in. Took me a month just to get the house livable.”

“But a week to redesign it into the Carcerem?” Harry laughed. “You know, your skills are being put to waste as an Auror. You should look into being an interior decorator.”

“I might have taken a few liberties.” Tom took Harry’s hand. His thumb traced the wedding band on his finger. “The bedroom, for instance, is far more comfortable.”

“I can’t believe you did this. This is … this is …”

“Are you crying?”

“No,” said Harry gruffly, wiping his face. “Maybe. A little. It’s your fault.”

Tom embraced him.

“I haven’t even shown you the library.”

“You made the _library_?”

“It even has copies of _Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle_.”

Harry’s laugh reached every corner of the hall.

 

**xXx**

 

Harry was woken by the wet warmth of Tom’s mouth on his cock. He bit his bottom lip, trying not to writhe as Tom took his time, but _oh, **oh** _—

Tom sucked harder, his teasing turning unbearable. Harry’s toes curled. He buried his fingers in Tom’s hair, his heart skittering as Tom’s tongue swirled around the tip, drawing him to the edge.

He arched, his skull pressing back into the pillow, gasping. Tom drank him down. He kissed Harry’s thighs; he kissed his stomach and chest and neck until Harry was tasting himself.

“Good morning, Mr. Riddle,” Tom said against his lips.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” Harry replied, grinning. “We’re married.” And the fact astounded him. “We’re _married_.” In the morning light shining through the window, the ring on his finger winked. He wouldn’t stop staring at it for days. It felt strange on his finger. Strange and wonderful.

Tom kissed him again, their hips moving in a slow, sinful grind. Tom broke it and for the first time all week, he looked nervous.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” he began. “And it’s all right if you say no. I won’t mind if you say no.”

Curiosity piqued, Harry asked, “What is it?”

Tom took a deep breath.

“Possession.”

“Possession?”

“While we have sex.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot into his fringe.

“I’ve done the research,” Tom went on swiftly. “It won’t hurt you. I know how to make sure it won’t.”

“You want to have sex … while possessing me?” Harry said slowly. “How would that even work?”

“Let me show you,” said Tom. “The moment you want me to stop, I’ll stop.”

Harry bit his lip, considering.

“Do you need me a certain way?”

“No,” said Tom. “You’re perfect like this.”

He retrieved the bottle of lubricant off the nightstand and gently worked Harry open. Harry tried to keep his breathing steady as Tom’s fingers moved inside him. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said he’d taken liberties with the bedroom. Instead of grim-gray, the walls were painted the soft hue of sandstone; the bed was no longer the rickety one of the orphanage. But on the wall over the headboard was the same Gryffindor house banner Harry had strung up on his first week inside the Carcerem. On the nightstand next to the bottle of lube was Neville’s Rememberall. It caught the sunlight and flung a kaleidoscope of color onto the wall.

Tom found his prostrate and Harry sucked in a breath. Tom rubbed him there a few more times before removing his fingers, replacing them with his cock. Harry groaned as Tom inched deeper. He ran his hands over Tom’s shoulders, drawing him back down so they could kiss again. They rocked, Tom entering him more with each forward press and suddenly, Tom’s mouth, his weight, his skin, vanished. Harry moaned so loudly at the feeling of Tom — all of Tom — sinking into him that his ears burned scarlet. Tom was everywhere. They were coiled together so tight that Harry didn’t know where he began and where Tom ended.

He was Tom and Tom was him. Their frantic hearts were one in the same. They were the same blood. The same bone. The same firing nerves. The same atoms and cells and it was too much. _It was too much._

Harry dug his heels into the mattress as Tom took control of his hands, making one grasp his cock and work it with steady pumps. Gasping, Harry bucked his hips as Tom pressed against his prostrate again and again. Harry lifted his hips, humping the air. He might as well be fucking himself because Tom’s cock was his cock —

Tom groaned and Harry felt the sound reverberate in his chest cavity. He made Harry’s hand move quicker on his cock, twisting and squeezing —

Their orgasms shuddered through Harry like a bulleting train.

Stillness, save for the racing of their hearts. Silence, save for the blood pounding in their ears.

Gently, Tom left him, his arms materializing and wrapping around Harry. He pressed his lips to Harry’s hot cheek.

“Well?” he asked.

“Oh my god,” said Harry.

“Good, then?”

“Oh my god.”

Tom laughed.

“I think if we’re not careful, that might kill me,” said Harry.

“Is that a no to another go?”

Harry laughed in exasperation, amazed at Tom’s stamina. “You fucking lunatic!”

He tackled Tom, rolling on top of him, kissing every part of him that he could reach.

 

* * *

 

**_November 29th, 1999_ **

Harry climbed the stairs of the Leaky Cauldron, unnerved that Tom had chosen it to meet. He moved down the hall, passing doors, until he came upon the one Tom had written in his note. Harry’s palms were sweating. He dried them on his robes. He shouldn’t go in. People were growing suspicious. He had the feeling Snape knew that they’d been corresponding. If his counterpart was still here, he would have known in a second.

Harry swallowed. Ignoring the do not disturb sign on the door, he knocked. Tom opened it and _goddamn_ did he have to look _that_ good?

“Harry. You’re late.”

“Yeah,” Harry said shortly.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come.”

“I wasn’t.” Harry pushed past him and entered the small room.

The corner of Tom’s mouth lifted.

“I’m glad you changed your mind.”

Harry didn’t know what to do with his hands so he stuffed them in his pockets. The room was barely larger than his own bedroom, a quarter of the size of the ones they used to have in Riddle House or the Palace. Not that Harry minded. He liked his bedroom in Godric’s Hollow. He liked living with his parents. He didn’t, however, like lying to them.

Tom closed the door and walked up to him. In his pocket, Harry grasped his wand, but he did not draw it. He held his breath as Tom touched the scar on his neck. Beneath Harry’s shirt, the scar continued down his chest. If Snape hadn’t been there during the surprise attack, Harry would have died. He still didn’t know if the curse had come from Tom or from a Death Eater.

He didn’t want to know.

“You shouldn’t be here,” said Harry.

“I wanted to see you.”

“You’re being careless. Sneaking into my office? Booking a room in the Leaky Cauldron? It’s like you _want_ to get caught.”

“What I want,” said Tom, fingers shifting to Harry’s tie, “is to get you in bed.”

“Tom—”

“How long until they expect you back?”

“Tom, we can’t keep doing this.”

“You said it,” Tom breathed. “You said it months ago and you’re right. You’re under my skin. You have been for some time now. Am I not under yours?”

Harry’s mouth was dry. Tom worked his tie loose, smiling, always confident that everything would go his way and wasn’t it? Wasn’t Harry here when he absolutely _should not_ be?

“They’ve gotten married,” Harry blurted.

Tom did not pause in unbuttoning Harry’s shirt. “Who has?”

“The other us. Our counterparts. They were getting married in November.”

“They may not have.”

“They loved each other too much not to.”

Tom paused in tugging Harry’s shirt free of his waistband. He stepped closer.

“You once asked me to run away with you, but I can’t do that. _You_ can’t do that.”

“Is this going somewhere?” Harry asked, hating that his throat constricted, hating that he felt like crying.

Tom’s smile was soft. He ran his hand up Harry’s scar, tracing its long jagged path from his lower ribs up to where it curved around his left ear. And just like one of those Muggle magicians, he pulled back his hand and from his fingers dangled a heavy, golden locket.

Though he’d never seen it, Harry knew what it was.

“I want you to have it,” said Tom.

Harry was stunned. “What?”

Tom slipped it around Harry’s neck, securing the clasp. He kissed his cheek and throat, one hand sliding down Harry’s spine.

“I can kill you,” he whispered, “and now you can kill me.”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

“Maybe we’ll never have to,” Tom replied, “but either way, it’s fair now.”

He pushed both Harry’s shirt and robe off his shoulders; they pooled on the floor and Harry found himself lying on the bed. Tom climbed on top of him.

“I have to be back by six.”

Tom glanced at the clock. He lowered down, brushing his lips against Harry’s.

“Then we shouldn’t waste a second.”

 

**xXx**

 

They didn’t. As the bed jerked, as the sheets grew damp and twisted Tom knew that no second could ever again be wasted, not when it came to Harry. He wanted to slip under his bones again and again; he wanted to bottle his voice and let it fill the cold silence that was his absence.

Tom took what he could, cherishing every breath, every touch, every scorching kiss. He felt the ticking clock like a second heart, counting down to the cursed chime.

He licked the long path of Harry’s scar. It kept him up at night — this scar. He’d thought he was dead. _He’d thought he was dead_ and he’d turned his wand on Pettigrew and tortured him until the rat’s mind broke. His Death Eaters knew better now. No one touched Harry.

No one.

 

* * *

 

“I should go.”

Tom made no reply. He let Harry rise from the bed; he let him leave the cocoon of his arms and the cold swept up faster and stronger against Tom’s naked skin than ever before.

_What if we did?_ a treacherous voice asked in his brain. _What if we left?_

Tom couldn’t answer it. If he did everything that he’d done would have been for naught. If he did …

Silently, Harry dressed, the horrid scar and the winking locket vanishing beneath his shirt.

_Look at me_ , Tom silently pleaded. _Look at me and see what I cannot say. Look at me and know the truth. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me._

Last button buttoned, belt buckled, shoes laced. Harry turned for the door and Tom thought his heart would stop then and there. The locket didn’t matter after all. He would die like the poets die, with hollowed-out chests.

“I’m sorry.”

Harry stiffened, one hand on the doorknob. He looked over his shoulder.

“What did you say?”

Tom swallowed, heart pounding.

“I’m sorry.”

Harry stared at him. The clock ticked its unrelenting count and they were both immobile, but finally Harry moved. He stepped away from the door. He returned to the edge of the bed. He held Tom in his gaze and Tom knew that this was the end of everything. But as Harry took his face in his hands and kissed him, Tom realized that every end was met with a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it! My first ever completed series and I’m so proud of it. 
> 
> I know I leave AU Harry and AU Tom a little open ended, but I’m happy with that. It’s bittersweet yet hopeful. No path for Harry and Tom was ever easy. They still have a lot to sort out, but they’re on the right road.
> 
> Even though I feel that this story is now finished, here are some things I imagine happening after ‘The End’ for our main boys.
> 
> The Island House becomes a summertime retreat for Harry and Tom because if you’ve saved two worlds you deserve your own fucking island.
> 
> Crookshanks and Zola get along really well. And Pig, too, for that matter. They are often found cuddled together, totally zonked out. And speaking of Zola … 
> 
> She has a very exciting tryst with a handsome garden snake and lays her first clutch of eggs. Harry is the world’s best nursemaid and drives Tom a little bit crazy with his paternal intensity over Zola’s adorable baby noodles. 
> 
> Also, Harry becomes fluent in Parseltongue.
> 
> Teddy is practically adopted by Harry and Tom and he refers to them both as his uncles. Tom spoils him rotten.
> 
> Harry gets promoted to Head of the Auror Department, obviously. Tom, however, I see going in two possible directions. He could run for Minister of Magic (and win, of course) or he could teach Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. I’m honestly far more attached to the Hogwarts position. He is an excellent, natural teacher. Can you imagine how many students would have major crushes on him? And just picture it: famous Harry Potter stopping by the Defense classroom to pick up his gorgeous husband for lunch.
> 
> Tom never gets over his aversion of peas.
> 
> Harry learns to fly without a broomstick.
> 
> They live happily ever after.
> 
> (In regards to whether or not they start a family of their own, be it through adoption or their own pregnancy, I will leave to each of you to decide.) 
> 
> Until next time,  
> purplewitch156


End file.
